The Shadow of Your Smile

by Mary Higgins Clark

  That year that she was so sick, I was ten years old. I never wanted to go anywhere or do anything. I just wanted to come straight from school to be with her. After she was gone, Dad made me join school activities, and that first year he brought me to New York on so many weekends. We went to plays and concerts and museums and did the fun, touristy stuff. But we were both so sad about Mom . . .

  He was a great storyteller, Monica remembered with a smile, as she decided to boil an egg and have a slice of whole wheat toast instead of an English muffin. When we went to Rockefeller Center at Christmastime, he told me all about the first tree that was ever put up there. It was a little one the workmen had put up because it was during the Depression and they were so grateful just to have jobs. He knew the history behind every place we visited . . .

  He loved history, but he didn’t have any concept of his background, his own history. Knowing that I was so close to learning about it has finally made me understand how important that was to him. I used to joke with him about it. “Dad, you may be the illegitimate son of the Duke of Windsor. What would Queen Elizabeth think about that?” I thought I was being funny.

  If only Olivia Morrow had lived one more day! If only she had lived one more day . . .

  While the egg boiled, Monica called the hospital. Sally had slept through the night. Her temperature was only slightly elevated. She hadn’t coughed much. “Every day, she’s so much better, Doctor,” the nurse reported, happily. “But you should know that some reporters were trying to get up here to take her picture. The security desk got rid of them.”

  “I would hope so,” Monica said, fervently. “You have my cell phone. Call if there’s any change with Sally, and if any reporters manage to sneak upstairs, don’t let them anywhere near Sally.”

  Shaking her head, she scooped the egg into a cup and put it on a plate with the toast. The thoughts of her father would not leave her mind. It’s Sunday morning. Dad and I always went to St. Patrick’s for the ten fifteen Mass there, when we came to New York for the weekend, she remembered. And after that we’d have brunch, and it was his surprise to me where we were going for the afternoon. Being away from home and doing different things like that helped both of us.

  Maybe I’ll go to the ten fifteen at the cathedral, she mused. It would make me feel closer to Dad. I need that feeling right now.

  I wonder what Ryan and his girlfriend are planning to do today?

  Stop it, Monica warned herself. Make some plans for your own afternoon. Going to that movie last night was one miserable letdown. It was terrible. What do the critics see in something that makes absolutely no sense? Maybe I’ll call a few people and, if they’re free, have them in for dinner. I haven’t cooked for company in the last three weeks. I always love doing that, but these past few weeks have been so crazy . . .

  But somehow the idea was not appealing.

  But I will go to St. Pat’s this morning, she decided fifteen minutes later, as she finished a second cup of coffee, enjoying the luxury of lingering over it as she read the newspapers that had been delivered to the door.

  At ten fifteen, she was in the cathedral, kneeling in a pew toward the front left side of the main altar, the area that her father had always chosen. Yesterday at this time, I was in St. Vincent’s listening to Father Dunlap eulogize Olivia Morrow, then talk about me. No one could help, and I guess no one ever will. I know what I was trying to remember that had to do with Sally, she suddenly recalled: it’s that I told Susan Gannon Sally almost didn’t make it.

  It wasn’t by a miracle or the power of prayer that Sally survived. The reason is that the kid who was her babysitter was smart enough to bring her to the hospital in time, and that we had the medicine to save her.

  The choir was singing, “I have heard you calling in the night.” I guess I’ve answered enough calls in the night, Monica thought wryly. I went to that beatification hearing, and testified that there had to be some medical reason why Michael O’Keefe is still alive. When Ryan saw the file, he said that there was absolutely no way Michael’s brain tumor wasn’t terminal. Ryan’s a neurosurgeon. I’m not, but I am a good pediatrician. I know perfectly well there are no medical facts that justify Michael’s recovery. Sister Catherine spent her life taking care of disabled children. She opened seven hospitals for them. I’m proud of myself that I was there for Sally, and that I helped Carlos to beat the leukemia.

  I took an oath that I was testifying about the case to the best of my ability and knowledge. Am I being stubbornly blind? I need to see Michael. It’s been three years. I want to see him again.

  Monica tried to focus on the Mass, but her thoughts kept drifting. The O’Keefes had moved to Mamaroneck from their Manhattan apartment shortly after Michael was diagnosed with brain cancer. It was only when Michael seemed to be fully recovered that they had triumphantly brought him back to her office . . .

  “Go in peace, the Mass is ended,” the Archbishop pronounced.

  As Monica left the cathedral, the choir was singing “Joyful, joyful, we adore thee.” She fumbled for her cell phone and dialed information. The O’Keefes’ phone number was listed. She dialed it and the call was picked up on the first ring. “This is Dr. Monica Farrell,” she said, “is this Mrs. O’Keefe?”

  “Yes, it is,” a warm voice responded. “It’s nice to hear from you, Doctor.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. O’Keefe. I’m calling because I am very anxious to see Michael again. Would you mind if I came up to visit you? I promise I won’t stay long.”

  “That’s absolutely fine. We’re home all day. Do you want to come this afternoon?”

  “I’d very much like to come this afternoon.”

  “Has it anything to do with Sister Catherine’s beatification?”

  “It has everything to do with it,” Monica said quietly.

  “Then come right up. Will you be driving yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “We look forward to seeing you, Dr. Monica. Isn’t it funny that a neurosurgeon, Dr. Ryan Jenner, was here only yesterday afternoon? He also wanted to meet Michael before he speaks to the beatification committee. What a wonderful person he is. I’m sure you must know him?”

  Monica felt a stab of pain. “Yes, I do,” she said quietly. “I know him quite well.”

  Two hours later, Monica was in Mamaroneck having a sandwich and coffee with Richard and Emily O’Keefe. Michael, their energetic eight-year-old son, had politely visited with Monica and had answered her questions with only a tinge of restlessness. He told her that his favorite sport was baseball, but that in the winter he liked to go skiing with his father. He never, ever felt dizzy, the way he used to when he was real sick.

  “His last MRI was only three months ago,” Emily told Monica. “It was absolutely clear. They’ve all been perfect after that first year.” She smiled at her son, who was now fidgeting. “I know. You want to go to Kyle’s. It’s okay, but Dad will walk you over there, and he’ll pick you up later.”

  Michael broke into a grin, revealing two missing front teeth. “Thanks, Mom. It’s nice to see you again, Dr. Farrell,” he said. “Mom told me that you really helped me to get better.” He turned and scampered out of the dining room.

  Richard O’Keefe got to his feet. “Wait up, Mike,” he called.

  After they were gone, Monica protested, “Mrs. O’Keefe, I didn’t help Michael get better.”

  “You certainly did. You recognized what it was. You told us straight out to get other consultations, but that he was terminal. That was when I knew I needed to beg for a miracle.”

  “Why did you choose to pray to Sister Catherine in particular?”

  “My great-aunt was a nurse in one of her hospitals. I remember her telling me when I was a little girl that she had worked with a nun who was like an angel. She told me that you would think every child she held in her arms was her own. She would comfort them and pray over them. My great-aunt was convinced that Sister Catherine had been gifted from God with a special power of healing,
that she had an aura about her that words couldn’t describe, and that everyone who was in her presence felt it, too. When you told us that Michael was going to die, my first thought was of Sister Catherine.”

  “I remember,” Monica said quietly. “I felt such pity for you because I knew there was just no hope for Michael.”

  Emily O’Keefe smiled. “And you still don’t believe in miracles, do you, Monica? In fact, didn’t you come here believing that no matter how well he seems, and no matter how clean his tests, that the tumor could come back someday?”

  ‘Yes, I did,” Monica said, reluctantly.

  “Why can’t you believe in miracles, Monica? What makes you so certain that they don’t happen?”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to believe, but as I testified to the beatification committee, I know from my medical training that throughout history events have occurred that seem to be miracles, but in reality they have a scientific explanation that just wasn’t understood at the time.”

  “Have any of those events ever included a little boy whose massive and malignant brain tumor completely disappeared?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Monica, Dr. Jenner is one of several respected neurosurgeons who are testifying that there is no medical or scientific explanation for Michael’s recovery. I don’t know whether you realize it, but it will be a long time before the Church itself concludes that this was a miracle. They will follow Michael’s medical status for many years.” Then Emily O’Keefe smiled. “We had pretty much this same conversation yesterday with Dr. Jenner. He told us he believed that in twenty years or fifty years there will still be no scientific explanation for Michael’s cure.”

  She reached for Monica’s hand and held it, gently. “Monica, I hope that you don’t think I’m overreaching, but I do very much sense that you are conflicted. And also that you are ready to accept the possibility that Sister Catherine intervened, and that because of her, our only child is with us now.”

  59

  Esther Chambers devoured the newspapers over the weekend with a combination of shock and disbelief. The fact that Peter Gannon had been arrested for the murder of his former girlfriend seemed to her absolutely incredible. Greg is the one who has a nasty temper, she thought. I’d believe it of him, but never of Peter. And the fact that Peter was the father of a baby girl who was in the hospital, a baby Peter had never seen, sickened her.

  Poor little tyke, she thought. Her mother’s dead, her father’s in jail, and if these articles can be believed, none of her mother’s relatives are looking to claim her.

  Greg’s public relations firm had issued the statement to the press saying that the family was standing behind Peter and believed he would be vindicated. I hope so, too, Esther thought. Peter spends the foundation money like water, but he’s basically a decent human being. In my wildest dreams I cannot imagine him strangling that woman and stuffing her into a garbage bag.

  She deliberately went to work early on Monday to avoid having to face the other employees and hear the gossip that she knew would be sweeping the office. But when she settled at her desk, Esther realized that her hands were trembling. She knew that by now Arthur Saling must have read the warning she had mailed to him. Would Greg suspect her of having written it? If Saling decided not to invest, she was sure Greg’s whole house of cards would collapse within weeks.

  Did I have the right to do that? she asked herself. The people from the Securities and Exchange Commission would probably be furious if they found out. But Greg was drawing in Mr. Saling, and I felt so sorry for him and his family. If Saling does invest, his money will be wiped out when the SEC closes in on Greg. Bad enough for the dozens of people who are going to lose everything—I just couldn’t let one more person get hurt, not when I could prevent it, she told herself.

  Through the glass doors that opened into the area where the rest of the office staff worked, she saw Greg Gannon approaching. Help me, Lord, she prayed. I don’t know what he would do if Saling shows him that letter, and he thinks I wrote it.

  With a hard push that sent the door flying open, Greg came into the suite and walked straight to Esther’s desk. “I assume you’ve read the newspapers and seen the television stories,” he said abruptly.

  “Of course. I’m so very sorry. And I know it’s all a terrible mistake.” Esther was glad that she was able to keep her voice quiet and convincing.

  “There’ll be plenty of phone calls from the media. Refer them to Jason at the PR firm. Let him earn his money for a change.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it immediately.”

  “I’m not available for calls. I don’t care if it’s the Pope on the line.”

  He surely wouldn’t be calling you, Esther thought.

  Greg Gannon started toward his private office, then stopped. “But if Arthur Saling phones, put him right through. I expect to be meeting with him later today.”

  Esther swallowed hard. “Of course, Mr. Gannon.”

  “All right.” Greg took a few steps away from Esther’s desk, then stopped again. “Wait a minute,” he snapped. “Haven’t we got a foundation meeting with the Greenwich Hospital group scheduled for tomorrow morning?”

  “Yes, at eleven o’clock.”

  “Cancel it.”

  “Mr. Gannon, if you’d allow me to offer a suggestion, that’s not a good idea. They’re very upset that the grant the foundation promised them hasn’t come through. I think it’s really necessary for you to meet with them and give them some reassurance. Otherwise, if they get the press involved, it could be ugly. You don’t need more pressure right now.”

  Greg Gannon hesitated, then said, “You’re right as usual, Esther. Remind Hadley and Langdon to be here. It’s obvious my brother won’t be available.”

  “Will you tell Mrs. Gannon yourself or shall I remind her, sir?”

  Astonished, Esther watched Greg Gannon’s face darken with rage. “Mrs. Gannon is very busy these days,” he snapped. “I doubt she’ll be available.”

  Oh boy, Esther thought, as she watched Greg stride into his office. Maybe there’s something to that rumor that Pamela has a boyfriend, and now Greg has heard about it. I wonder who the guy is?

  If it really is true, Pamela won’t be making any more trips to Cartier.

  She’ll be doing her jewelry shopping in a bargain store basement.

  60

  After he had lunch with Doug Langdon at the St. Regis, Dr. Clayton Hadley spent the rest of the weekend in a state of near panic. The memory of holding the pillow over Olivia Morrow’s face haunted his every waking moment. How did I let myself get into this? he wondered, frantically. I had a good practice. I was being paid well for my job at the foundation. I actually did steer money from the foundation into cardiac research. That, at least, would stand up, if anyone ever investigates where the foundation money really has gone . . .

  When the money from Alex Gannon’s patents was still flowing in, it was easy for me to set up phony research centers that were little more than rented rooms with a so-called lab technician, Clay thought. Doug got me started on that. Now I have a fortune in my Swiss bank account.

  A lot of good that will do me if I’m indicted for murder.

  How about Doug? For the last ten years, since we’ve been on the foundation board, he’s been funneling small grants into worthwhile mental health projects, as well as pots of money into storefront clinics with one part-time attendant. The money flowed out the back door of those places, and straight into Doug’s pockets.

  The Gannons were oblivious, Clay thought. They gave the okay to anything Doug or I proposed. They were too busy scooping out the foundation money themselves to maintain their own extravagances. They rubber-stamped us, and we rubber-stamped them.

  Then, when Doug introduced Pamela to Greg eight years ago, Greg fell for her like a ton of bricks, divorced his wife, married her, and made her a member of the foundation board. For eight years, Pamela’s been playing Lady Bountiful all over Ma
nhattan. If Greg wasn’t available to take the bows at any of those dreary dinners honoring the foundation for its legitimate grants, she was there doing it for him.

  Greg’s spending has been out of control ever since he married Pamela, Clay thought nervously. And these past four years, Peter’s been boasting about his grants for his off-Broadway projects, while he’s been pouring foundation money into his own musical fiascos.

  All these thoughts were torturing Clay as he sat trying to read the papers in his comfortable Gramercy Park apartment. Like Doug, he had been divorced for years, but as a welcome guest in the social world, he never lacked for female company. His solicitous manner, as well as his ability to make small talk, made him an excellent extra man, the kind hostesses were always trying to find. Unlike Doug, who escorted any number of different and very attractive women, Clay found his current status absolutely satisfactory. It’s taken me more than fifty years to realize that I’m a loner, he thought.

  Olivia Morrow. I actually have the nerve to miss her. Olivia and I were friends. She trusted me. How many times over the years did we go out for dinner or to the theatre together? I knew her for such a long time. Her mother, Regina, was my patient. I’m sorry that her mother told us about Alex’s granddaughter, and gave Olivia that file. If only Olivia had buried it with her mother . . . If only! But what good does that do?

  But did Olivia destroy it at the end? I’m almost sure she did. It wasn’t anywhere in the apartment, and her safety deposit box hasn’t been opened for years. If she hadn’t received that call from Monica Farrell Tuesday night, she’d have died and it would all be over. But instead Olivia saw that phone call from Catherine’s granddaughter as a sign from Catherine, of all things.

  Now with Peter all over the newspapers, will it put the foundation in the spotlight? If they ever start digging into the finances, it’s all over. Doug seems to think that Greg can doctor up the paperwork to show that because of the present economic climate and some unwise investments, it’s necessary to close the foundation. Doug doesn’t believe that too many questions will be asked. But I’m not so sure it would be like that at all. I think I’m going to self-diagnose a heart condition, close down my practice, and get out of the country.