The Shadow of Your Smile

by Mary Higgins Clark

  Monsignor Kelly invited Monica to sit down. He thanked her again for coming, then asked, “Do you know anything about Sister Catherine?”

  “Certainly not personally. I was aware of the fact that she was the foundress of seven children’s hospitals, so as a pediatrician I have great respect for her,” Monica said, suddenly more comfortable that this was not going to be an inquisition about her belief or lack of belief in miracles. “I’m aware that she was a Franciscan nun and her hospitals individually had a target of treating patients with a specific disability, much the way St. Jude Hospital was founded by Danny Thomas to treat children with cancer.”

  “That is exactly right,” Kelly agreed. “And after her death thirty-three years ago there were many people who believed she had been a saint living among us. We are specifically investigating the healing of the O’Keefe child, but countless parents wrote or called this diocese to say that she seemed to have special healing powers in the sense that many gravely ill children turned the corner after being in her presence.” Monsignor Kelly looked at Monsignor Fell. “Why don’t you take over, David?”

  David Fell’s quick smile brightened his solemn demeanor. “Dr. Farrell, let me give you a brief background of someone whose cause is presently being studied in Rome. Terence Cooke was the Cardinal-Archbishop of New York. He died about twenty-five years ago. Have you ever heard of him?”

  “Yes I have. My father loved New York,” Monica said. “After my mother died, when I was ten years old, he and I would come down to Manhattan and spend weekends going to the theatre and visiting museums. We never missed the Cardinal’s Masses at St. Patrick’s on Sunday morning. I remember seeing Cardinal O’Connor there. I know that was after Cardinal Cooke died.”

  Fell nodded. “He was a man who was loved by countless people. To know him was to feel blessed to be in his presence. After Cardinal Cooke’s passing thousands of people wrote letters about him to the archdiocese, about his goodness, his kindness, and how he had affected their lives. One of those letters you might be interested to know came from President and Nancy Reagan.”

  “They weren’t Catholic,” Monica said.

  “Many of the letters were from people who are not Catholic, and they were people from all walks of life. It is not generally known that when he was shot, President Reagan was much closer to death than had been released to the public. Michael Deaver, President Reagan’s chief of staff, asked him if he would like to speak to a spiritual advisor. The president wanted Cardinal Cooke flown to Washington and he spent two and a half hours at Reagan’s bedside.”

  Fell continued. “The investigation into the cause of Cardinal Cooke has been an ongoing process for many years. Over twenty-two thousand documents, meaning letters as well as verbal testimony and his own writings, have been examined. Like Sister Catherine, he is credited with the miracle of saving the life of a dying child.”

  “You have to understand where I am coming from,” Monica said, carefully choosing her words. “It is not that I don’t believe in the possibility of divine intervention, but as a doctor I continue to look for other reasons why this child, Michael O’Keefe, had spontaneous remission. I’ll give you an example. A person with dissociative identity disorder, multiple personality as it used to be called, may be able to sing like a lark in one personality, and be tone deaf in another. We have examples of some of those people who require eyeglasses in one identity and have twenty-twenty vision in another identity. As a scientist I am still looking for an explanation for the remission or cure of Michael O’Keefe’s cancerous brain tumor.”

  “When you were contacted by us, you did readily acknowledge Michael’s mother’s response when you told her and his father that he was terminally ill?”

  “After urging Mr. and Mrs. O’Keefe to seek other opinions from qualified specialists, I begged them not to subject Michael to fake promises of a cure. I said I was sure the doctors in Cincinnati would verify my diagnosis, and after that they should take Michael home and enjoy him for the year that he would live.”

  “And how did the parents respond?”

  “Michael’s father almost collapsed. His mother looked at me and said, ‘My son is not going to die. I am going to begin a crusade of prayer to Sister Catherine and he will get well.’ ”

  Monsignors Fell and Kelly exchanged glances. “Dr. Farrell, we need to take your testimony under oath and then we can let you go,” Monsignor Kelly said. “What you have said is crucially important to this proceeding.”

  “I’ll be happy to testify under oath,” Monica said quietly. Isn’t it funny, she reflected. The Hippocratic oath is the only one I’ve ever taken. Words from Hippocrates’ Precepts ran through her mind . . . “for some patients, though conscious that their condition is perilous, recover their health simply through their contentment with the goodness of the physician.”

  I wonder if, after all, Michael O’Keefe recovered not because of the goodness of the physician, meaning me, but because of the intervention of a deceased Franciscan nun, Sister Catherine, who spent her life caring for disabled children? Michael’s mother had absolute confidence that Sister Catherine would not suffer her to lose her only child.

  It was a thought that stayed with Monica as she repeated her testimony under sacred oath.

  23

  Gregory Gannon’s duplex apartment was in one of the Museum Mile buildings, so called because of their proximity on Fifth Avenue to the Metropolitan Museum of Art as well as the Guggenheim and others. It had terraces that allowed him to look over Manhattan in all four directions, with a dazzling view of the most famous island in the world.

  Before his second marriage eight years ago, Greg had lived in the corner building next door, in a comfortable twelve-room cooperative apartment that was still occupied by his first wife, Caroline. His two sons had grown up there. Aidan was now a lawyer working as a public defender in the Manhattan Legal Aid Society office. The other, William, was a teacher, who after receiving his master’s degree in sociology had volunteered to serve at an inner-city school. After the divorce neither one of them had chosen to have any further dealings with Greg. “You announced in the media that you were divorcing Mom to marry Pamela when Mom didn’t even have a clue you were running around,” Aidan had told him. “Well, good for you. You’ve got Pamela. You were also quoted as saying ‘for the first time in my life I know what real happiness is.’ So forget about us. You don’t need us and we don’t want you.”

  The boys were in their late twenties now. Occasionally, if Greg decided to walk to or from the office, he would run into one of the boys who was going to visit his mother. Greg did not like to admit to himself that he always chose to walk past Caroline’s building in the hope of a chance meeting with his sons. But when it did happen neither son responded to his greeting.

  Once in a while, at a benefit, he’d see Caroline across the room. He’d heard that she was getting serious about Guy Weatherill, the CEO of an international engineering firm that specialized in building roads and bridges. Weatherill was a widower, and from all Greg had heard, a very solid citizen. He hoped so for Caroline’s sake. She deserved a good guy. And she got plenty from me in the divorce, Greg always reminded himself defensively.

  All this was running through Greg’s mind as he sat in the library at home sipping a vodka and looking out through a terrace window to the brooding early evening sky.

  How much would this apartment bring? he asked himself. Eight years ago when Pamela and I were married, I paid eighteen million for it. But then Pam tore it apart and I put another eight million into renovating it. I don’t think I’d get twenty-six million in this market. And how can I face Pam and tell her that I’ve got to cover my losses or else?

  I’ve been pretty lucky with the tips I’ve been given. I haven’t made any trades that would look suspicious until these last few years when I got too greedy. The lunch today went great. This guy always lived well, but his trust fund had him on a tight leash. Now that his mother is dead he wants to inves
t his inheritance and have it make real money for him. He’s heard such good things about me, and a lot of his friends are my clients. If he puts me in charge of his portfolio, I may be able to stay liquid until I make a few killings again.

  The foundation. Everybody knew that the returns on investments were way down. The patents have expired and money isn’t pouring in anymore. It hasn’t been for years. But we’ve hit the principal too aggressively, he reflected. I’ve helped myself to money from so-called charities that couldn’t stand the light of day. Peter’s theatre grants would at best be questionable, under close scrutiny. At least Clay as a cardiologist and Doug, the king of mental health research, make us look good with the charities they put us in.

  I need to take money, lots of money, from the foundation. But it isn’t there to take anymore.

  “Greg?”

  As always the seductive voice that had thrilled him the first time he’d met her did its usual magic on Greg Gannon. “In here,” he called.

  “You hide in that big leather chair,” his wife said, her tone teasing. “You’re not trying to hide from me, are you?”

  Greg Gannon felt arms slide around the back of his chair and wrap themselves around his neck. The exquisite, breathtakingly expensive perfume that Pamela always wore wafted softly through his nostrils. Without seeing her, he could visualize her startling beauty. Not infrequently people mistook her for Catherine Zeta-Jones.

  With a tremendous surge of willpower, he pushed aside the demons that were warning him he could not solve his financial problems and that like so many others, he would end up facing a long prison term. He reached up and closed his hands over Pamela’s arms. “Hide from you? Never. Pam, you do love me, don’t you?”

  “Silly, silly question.”

  “No matter what, you’d never leave me, would you?”

  Pamela Gannon laughed, a low, amused laugh. “Why would I ever leave the most generous man in the whole wide world?”

  24

  At six o’clock on Wednesday evening, Kristina Johnson phoned her mother.

  “Mom, I don’t know what to do. Ms. Carter didn’t come home last night and she doesn’t answer her cell phone. I’m still here alone with the baby.”

  “For heaven’s sake, that’s crazy. Today is your day off. Who does that woman think she is?”

  “She stayed out one night last week, but she was home in the morning. She’s never been out of contact this long. And I’m worried about Sally. She’s wheezing a little.” Kristina looked down at Sally, who sat quietly on the carpet with a doll in her lap.

  “Aren’t you keeping her away from that dog?”

  “I try to but Sally loves the dog and he loves her. But Labs shed, and the doctor warned her mother that Sally is allergic to animals.”

  “Renée Carter shouldn’t have a pet when she knows it will make her child sick. She’s some kind of mother, let me tell you.”

  A tired Kristina could visualize her mother warming up to tell her that being a nanny was hard, hard work, and that she should have gone on to get a degree in nursing. Then she wouldn’t be at the mercy of one of these spoiled rich women who only have a child so that they can take it to Central Park occasionally and have the photographer from Page Six of the New York Post snap their picture together.

  Kristina stopped the flow before it began. “Mom, I’m really just calling to say I’m obviously not coming home tonight. The one thing you have to admit is that Ms. Carter is paying me double my salary because I’ve been here all week. I’m sure she’ll be back soon.”

  “Have you tried to reach any of her friends?”

  Kristina hesitated. “I called two of them I know she sees all the time.”

  “What did they say?”

  “One of them laughed and said, ‘That’s Renée. She must have some new guy on the hook.’ The other one just said that she had no idea where she was.”

  “Well there’s nothing you can do except wait it out, I guess. When she left last night do you know who she was meeting?”

  “No, but she was in a great mood.”

  “All right, but I want you to think about giving up that job. And something else, keep a close watch on that baby. If she’s wheezing, get the vaporizer on. And if she gets bad, don’t take any chances. Call the doctor. Do you have the doctor’s number?”

  “Yes. Dr. Farrell called a couple of times checking on Sally. Every time she does, she gives me her cell phone number again.”

  “All right. I guess you can’t do anything more for now. But if that woman doesn’t come back tomorrow maybe you’ll have to call the police.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be back. I’ll talk to you, Mom.”

  With a sigh, Kristina replaced the phone on the cradle. She had called from Sally’s bedroom, the one place where she had managed to keep the dog from entering. It was large and furnished in white wicker. The carpet was a pink and white design. The walls were fancifully painted with nursery figures. The windows were framed in pink and white eyelet draperies. A row of shelves opposite the crib was filled with toys and children’s books. When Kristina saw the room for the first time she had complimented Renée Carter on it. Her response had been, “It should be nice. The decorator charged me a fortune.”

  Sally had barely eaten any dinner. She had begun to play with her dolls but now, to Kristina’s concern, she wandered over to her crib, pulled her security blanket from it, and lay down on the floor.

  She is getting sick again, Kristina thought. I’ll turn on the vaporizer and I’ll sleep on the sofa bed in here with her. If she isn’t better in the morning, whether or not her mother is back, I’m going to call Dr. Farrell. I’m sure Ms. Carter will be furious. I’ll have to admit to the doctor that she isn’t here but I don’t care.

  Kristina walked across the room, bent down, and picked up the sleepy baby. “You poor kid,” she said. “You certainly got one bum break when you were born to that miserable woman.”

  25

  Monica had hoped to go home and freshen up before her meeting with Olivia Morrow. It would be cutting it too tight, she decided, as she drove back through the Lincoln Tunnel. I’d rather be in her neighborhood early than run the risk of keeping her waiting. She’s obviously not well.

  She claims she knew my grandparents, Dad’s birth mother and father. How did that happen? Dad’s birth mother did everything she could to conceal her identity. The names listed in the birth records in the hospital in Ireland had the Farrells as the natural parents. What did Olivia Morrow mean when she said she wanted to tell me about them before it’s too late? Too late for what? Is she sick enough to be actually dying? If it weren’t for that chance remark to Tony Garcia when he drove her, I would never have contacted her. Would she ever have contacted me?

  At twenty minutes of five, after parking the car in a nearby garage, Monica entered the lobby of Schwab House. At the desk she gave her name. “I have an appointment at five o’clock with Ms. Morrow,” she explained. “I’m a little early, so I’ll just wait before you call her.”

  “Certainly, ma’am.”

  The twenty minutes seemed like hours before Monica went back to the desk. “Will you call her now, please? Tell her Dr. Farrell is here.”

  Her anticipation rising to a fever pitch, Monica watched as the desk clerk dialed a number. She saw the expression come over his face that clearly suggested a problem. Then he broke the connection, dialed the number again, and waited for several long minutes before he disconnected.

  “She’s not answering,” he said flatly. “There may be a problem. I know for sure that Ms. Morrow has not gone out today. She’s not at all well, and when she came back yesterday, she looked too tired to walk to the elevator. I have her doctor’s number. I’m going to call him. The night clerk told me he was here last evening to see her.”

  “I’m a doctor,” Monica said quickly. “If you think there is a medical problem, time may be of the essence.”

  “I’ll call Dr. Hadley and then if it’s okay with
him, I’ll go upstairs with you now.”

  In an agony of impatience, Monica waited while the clerk made the call to Hadley. He was not in his office, but he answered on his cell phone. From what she could hear the clerk saying, he was concise in explaining the situation. Finally he hung up. “Dr. Hadley will be here as fast as he can make it, but he said for me to bring you to Ms. Morrow’s apartment immediately, and if she has the bolt on to break in.”

  When the clerk turned the superintendent’s key in the lock they heard a click, and when he turned the handle the door opened. The bolt of the apartment where Olivia Morrow had lived for more than half her life was not on. “I’m sure she hasn’t gone out,” the clerk said again. “Dr. Hadley was here last night. If she was in bed, she probably didn’t bother to get up and slide the bolt closed after he left.”

  There were no lights on, but there was still sufficient natural light coming in from the west for Monica to glance at an orderly living room, a dining area, the open door to a kitchen, and then hurry behind the clerk down the hall. “Her bedroom is at the end,” he said, the next door from the den.”

  He took a moment to knock on the closed bedroom door, then hesitantly opened it and entered the bedroom. From the doorway Monica could see the small figure, her head resting on a raised pillow, the rest of her body under the covers.

  “Ms. Morrow,” the clerk said, “it’s Henry. We’re just checking up on you. The doctor is worried that you may need him.”

  “Turn on the light,” Monica ordered.

  “Oh, sure, Doctor, sure,” Henry stammered.

  The overhead fixture flooded the room with light. Monica walked swiftly to the side of the bed and looked down on the waxy face, the teeth clamped on a corner of her bottom lip, her eyes partially open. She’s been dead for hours, she thought. Rigor mortis has set in. Oh God, if only I had called her earlier! Will I ever know about my birth family now?