The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1

by Douglas Kennedy

  Order was something I truly craved right now.

  I ran a bath. I sat soaking in the tub for nearly an hour. I told myself: You see . . . a little displacement activity, and the gods of balance and equilibrium land comfortably on your shoulders. Everything’s going to be fine now.

  So fine that, after I got dressed, I felt fully energized—even though I hadn’t been to bed all night. I peeped in on Tony in his office. He was crashed out on his sofa . . . but I did notice a stack of new pages on the ever-growing manuscript pile. So I tiptoed over to his desk, made certain his radio alarm was set for nine AM, then scribbled a fast note:

  Off to the hospital to see our boy. Hope you like the clean-up job on the house. Dinner tonight on me at the restaurant of your choice? I await your reply.

  Love you . . .

  I signed my name, hoping that he’d respond favorably to the idea of the sort of pleasant nights out we used to have in Cairo. With Jack due home within days, this would be our last chance to roll out of the house unencumbered.

  I went downstairs. I checked my watch. Just after seven AM I opened the front door and noticed that someone on the far side of the road was in the middle of building work, with an empty Dumpster out front for assorted debris. I glanced back at the stack of empty cardboard boxes and now-broken-down packing crates, and thought: this would save a trip to the dump. I also remembered how everyone on the street emptied their attics into our Dumpster during the first stage of our renovations. So I decided that there would be few objections if a few items from my house ended up intermingling with my neighbor’s debris.

  However, as I was in the process of dumping the second lot of boxes into this large bin, a house door opened and a man in his mid-forties came out. He was dressed in a dark gray suit.

  “You know, that is our skip,” he said, his voice full of tempered indignation. Immediately I became apologetic.

  “Sorry, I just thought that, as it was kind of empty . . .”

  “You really should ask permission before tossing things into other people’s skips.”

  “But I just thought . . .”

  “Now I’d appreciate it if you’d remove all your rubbish—”

  However, he was interrupted by a voice that said, “Oh for God’s sake, will you listen to yourself.”

  The gent looked a little startled. Then he became immediately sheepish, as he found himself staring at a woman in her late forties—blond, big boned, with a heavily lined face (blondes always start to fracture after the rubicon of forty is crossed), but still striking. Equally eye-catching was the very large Labrador she had by her side. She had been walking by us when she heard our exchange. I recognized her immediately: she was the woman who had spoken to me approvingly in the shop after I forced Mr. Noor to be polite to me. And I could tell from the reaction of the Suit that he was distinctly uneasy in her presence. He avoided her accusatory gaze and said, “I was simply making a point.”

  “And what point was that?”

  “I really do think this is between myself and—”

  “When I was having my new kitchen put in last year, and there was a skip out front, who filled it up one night with half the contents of his loft?”

  The Suit now looked appalled—because he had been publicly embarrassed. From my few short months in England I knew that embarrassment was considered the most fearsome of personal calamities—and to be avoided at all costs. But whereas in America, the guy would have countered by saying something politic like, “Mind your own effing business,” here he suddenly went all pale and diminished, and could only mutter, “Like I said: I was just trying to make a point.”

  To which my Good Samaritan with the Labrador gave him a cold, knowing smile, and said, “Of course you were.” Then she turned back to me and asked, “Need a hand with the rest of the boxes?”

  “I’ll be fine. But I . . .”

  “Nice to see you again, Sally,” she said, proffering her hand. “It is Sally, right?”

  I nodded. “Julia?”

  “Well done.”

  The gent cleared his throat, as if to announce his departure. Then he turned tail and hurried back into his house.

  “Twit,” Julia said under her breath after he was gone. “No wonder his wife walked out last month.”

  “I didn’t know . . .”

  She shrugged. “Just another domestic drama—like we’ve all had. And, by the way, I heard you’re a new mother. Wonderful news. I would have dropped over with a little something, but I’ve been away most of the last two months in Italy with my son Charlie.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Fourteen. And what did you have—a boy or a child?”

  “A boy,” I said, laughing. “Jack.”

  “Congratulations. How’s life without sleep?”

  “Well . . . he’s not home yet.”

  Then I explained, in the briefest way possible, what had befallen him.

  “Good God,” she said quietly. “You’ve really had a ghastly time of it.”

  “Him more than me.”

  “But are you all right?”

  “Yes and no. Sometimes I can’t really tell.”

  “Got time for a cup of tea?”

  “I’d love to—but I really need to be at the hospital early this morning.”

  “Completely understood,” she said. “Anyway, drop by whenever. And do throw as much rubbish in that fool’s skip as you like.”

  With a pleasant smile, she ended our little encounter.

  I followed her instructions, and threw all the remaining empty boxes into the skip, along with four brimming bags of builders’ debris. Then I walked to the tube, thinking: “I actually have a friendly neighbor.”

  At the hospital, I was on my ultra-best behavior. And I was hugely relieved to discover that Jack’s return to pediatric ICU had been a brief one, as he was back on the normal baby ward. The usual head nurse was there as well—eyeing me up carefully, the way one does with anyone who’s been labeled “a loose cannon.”

  But I gave her a big smile and said, “Is Nurse McGuire around? I think I owe her an apology for being so extreme yesterday.”

  Immediately the head nurse relaxed. Acts of contrition usually do that.

  “I’m afraid she’s off on a week’s holiday—but when she’s back, I’ll tell her what you said.”

  “And I am sorry I didn’t make it last night. It’s just . . . well, to be honest about it, I was so tired I simply passed out.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Every mother is exhausted after giving birth. And the good news is: that little relapse last night was nothing more than that. In fact, you might be able to bring him home as early as tomorrow.”

  I was all smiles. “That is great news.”

  “Are you up for feeding him now? He’s definitely hungry.”

  Doing my best to disguise my unease, I nodded, keeping the fixed smile on my face. The head nurse motioned for me to follow her. We walked down the ward to Jack’s crib. He was lying on his side, crying loudly. I tensed—wondering if he’d really start bawling when I picked him up. But I tried to mask this by saying, “He sounds really hungry.”

  The head nurse smiled back. Then there was an awkward moment, where I stood by the crib, not knowing if I should pick him up, or if the nurse was going to hand him to me. Looking rather warily at me again, the nurse motioned for me to take him. My hands were sweaty as I reached in. And yes, his squeals did amplify as I lifted him.

  Keep your nerve, keep your nerve, I told myself. And, for God’s sake, don’t look fearful.

  I pulled Jack close to me, rocking him gently. His crying redoubled. I quickly settled down into the hard straightback chair by the crib, opened my shirt, released my left breast from the nursing bra, squeezed the area around the nipple in an effort to expend a little milk, but felt nothing but solidified concrete.

  Don’t think about it, just get him on the breast and hope that you don’t start screaming. Nurse is studying your every move.
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  I gently directed Jack’s head toward the nipple. When he found it he began to suck ravenously. I shut my eyes as the pain hit. But then his voraciousness suddenly paid off—as his vacuumlike suction cleared the ducts and milk poured forth. It didn’t matter that his steel-trapped gums were squeezing the hell out of the nipple, or that my level of discomfort was rising by the minute. He was eating.

  “Are you in a bit of pain there?” the head nurse asked.

  “Nothing that can’t be managed,” I said.

  This was the correct response, as the nurse nodded approvingly and said, “I’ll leave you to it.”

  As soon as she was out of sight, I leaned over and whispered into Jack’s ear, “Thanks.”

  After ten minutes, I transferred Jack to the other nipple—and, once again, his vacuum of a mouth cleared all obstructions within moments and milk flowed freely.

  Of course, I’ve read the usual pop psychology stuff about how physical blockages can lead to psychological blockages. But though I used to be skeptical of this kind of body-mind linkage, I have to admit that when I left the hospital that morning, I felt as if I had finally rid myself of the gloomy impasse in which I had lived since Jack’s birth.

  “Well, God bless my nephew’s suction,” Sandy said when I called her around nine AM her time to tell her that, finally, I had been able to feed my son without the use of a dreaded breast pump. But when I said that I was now feeling almost blissed-out, she said, “Great to hear it—but don’t get yourself into a state if you suddenly slip back into the dumps again. Once Jack comes home you’re going to be dealing with broken nights—when three hours of uninterrupted sleep will seem like a total triumph.”

  “But I haven’t been to bed all night, and I feel totally terrific.”

  “Why didn’t you get to bed last night?”

  “Because I was asleep all day yesterday.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “Really, it was the best thing that could have happened to me. I needed to shut down for a while. And now, I feel as if my equilibrium is back to normal, and I’ve really got things back into proportion, and I’m feeling genuinely at one with things.”

  Long pause. I said, “You still there, Sandy?”

  “Oh, I’m here. But I’m also wondering if you’ve suddenly turned into a Moonie.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Well, what the hell do you expect when you start saying garbage like ‘I’m at one with things.’”

  “But I am.”

  “You now have me very worried.”

  That was typical Sandy—even more literal than I was when it came to judging other people’s moods. But I knew I was all right—though when I returned home that morning from the hospital, there was a note waiting for me from Tony, saying:

  Invitation Declined With Regret. US Deputy Secretary of State in town tonight. Just received last-minute invitation for dinner at the Embassy. Will make it up to you.

  Great, just great. But after last night’s stupidity, I wasn’t going to call him up and hector him for turning down my invitation. Instead, I’d put a positive spin on this situation. Rather than fall into bed now for a nap, I’d force my way through the day on no sleep, then go by the hospital around seven and would be back home in bed by ten—tired out enough to sleep straight through the night without interruption. Come morning, I’d be back on a normal schedule—and ready to bring my son home.

  Of course, by the time I reached the Mattingly that night, I had been up for twenty straight hours, and was starting to veer into numb-with-fatigue territory. The evening feeding session at the hospital went on longer than expected—as Mr. Hughes made a surprise visit to the baby ward. He was showing a group of his students around this corner of the hospital—and when he saw me feeding Jack, his led his entourage over toward me. I had my son at my breast—and turned my wince into a look of maternal contentment as he approached us.

  “Bonding well, are we?” he asked.

  “No problems,” I said, all smiley.

  “And judging from the way your boy is absorbed in the task at hand, all is flowing well?”

  “Everything is working just fine.”

  “Splendid, splendid. Mind if I give the little chap a quick look over?”

  Jack was not pleased to be disengaged from his source of food. As he kicked up, I quickly tucked my breast back into my shirt—especially as one of the male medical students with Hughes seemed particularly interested in my now bloated nipple. But judging from the critical way he was eyeing it, his interest was definitely more clinical than sexual. Meanwhile, all the other students were crowding around the crib. He started explaining in highly technical language about Jack’s complicated delivery, and how he had to be ventilated after birth. He then explained about how I was suffering from high blood pressure throughout my pregnancy . . . to the point where he wondered whether it was best to deliver the child prematurely—as high blood pressure can prove hazardous to the mother’s health.

  “You never told me that,” I said.

  Suddenly, all eyes were upon me. Hughes gave me a frown. He didn’t like to be interrupted in mid-discourse—especially by some pesky American.

  “Something the matter, Mrs. Goodchild?” he asked.

  “You never told me you were considering a premature delivery.”

  “That’s because your high blood pressure condition wasn’t preeclampsic . . . and because it did eventually stabilize. But, truth be told, when you were first admitted with high blood pressure, you were a borderline case for an emergency caesarean . . .”

  “Well, thanks for the information, even if it is a little after the fact. I mean, if there was a danger to me and my baby, shouldn’t I have been given that emergency caesarean option at the time?”

  “Curiously enough, it is always better for the child if it is carried to full term. And curiously enough, Mrs. Goodchild, we are rather up-to-date on modern obstetric practice on this side of the pond . . . which means that we did do what was medically best for you and your son. More to the point, just a fortnight or so after a most complex and perilous delivery, your son appears to be flourishing. Good evening, Mrs. Goodchild.”

  And he moved on to the next crib.

  Brilliant. Well done. Bra-fucking-vo. I’m surprised the State Department hasn’t headhunted you for your diplomatic skills.

  I put my hands against both sides of the crib, and lowered my head, wondering if all eyes were upon me, and if I should try to rectify things with an apology. But when I looked back up with the intention of saying something, Hughes and company were engrossed in another patient. Anyway, I had been put in my place, cut down to size, embarrassed.

  I gripped the edge of the crib even tighter—and felt myself get very shaky again: a downward swoop which, out of nowhere, transported me to a vertiginous place positioned right over a deep, gaping chasm.

  “Baby needs feeding again, I’m afraid,” said a voice to my right. It was the nurse on duty—a severe, stocky woman who had been hovering in the vicinity while Hughes gave me a dressing-down, and (judging from the look she was giving me right now) thoroughly approved of his criticisms. Especially as Jack was still crying wildly, and I was just standing there, looking spacey.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I said as I picked up Jack, settled down again in the straight-back chair, and reattached him to my left nipple. Thankfully, he had the milk duct opened within seconds.

  “Now I spoke with Dr. Reynolds earlier today—and he feels that your son is ready to be discharged. So you can collect him tomorrow morning if that doesn’t present any problems.”

  I avoided her gaze.

  “None at all.”

  “Very good then.”

  Ten minutes later, having settled Jack back in his crib, I was in a cab rolling down the Fulham Road, crying like an idiot. The driver—a young fellow, lean and tough looking—kept glancing at me in his rearview mirror, not exactly pleased that he had this blubbering woman in the back of hi
s cab, but still torn between asking me what was wrong and not wanting to interfere. Anyway, I’ve never been one of those tell-all types who confide in strangers. But yet again, I was the architect of my own mess-up . . . and was also wildly overreacting to Hughes’s disparagement of me.

  By the time we reached Putney, I did finally manage to get myself under a degree of control. But when I paid off the driver, he deliberately avoided looking at me.

  I walked into the empty house and bolted upstairs to the bedroom. I threw off my clothes, put on a T-shirt, and climbed into bed. I pulled the covers over my head. I blocked out everything.

  When I jolted awake again at eight the next morning, I was so pleasantly groggy from such an unbroken period of unconsciousness that it took a moment or so to realize: I’ve actually slept.

  Tony had assured me that he would take the morning off to drive me to the hospital to collect Jack. But when I shuffled down to the kitchen, I found a Post-it on top of a couple of crumpled bank notes.

  Emergency at the paper. Here’s $50 for a cab there and back. Will try to get home ASAP this evening.

  T xxx

  I grabbed the phone. I punched in the number of Tony’s direct line. I got his voicemail. So I phoned his cell.

  “Can’t talk right now,” he said.

  “I don’t care what emergency you have on your hands. You’re meeting me at the hospital, understand?”

  “I can’t talk.”

  Then he hung up.

  Immediately I rang back. He had obviously turned off his phone after our last conversation, as I was put through directly to his voicemail.

  “How dare you—how fucking dare you—pull this. You get your sorry English ass over to the hospital, or I am not going to be responsible for what happens next. Do you get that?”

  I hung up, my heart pounding, my head full of righteous indignation and genuine upset. More tellingly, I hated the way I sounded on the phone. I also hated the extremity of my reaction, and the way I shifted from serenity to rage in a matter of a few moments. But . . . I’m sorry . . . he just couldn’t stand me up on this one. Not on the first trip home with our newborn son.