by Susan Isaacs
“Yes. Very bad. A head injury. They have her in intensive care….”
“Where?” Let it be New York, not Connecticut. Thousands of doctors, bright white modern equipment.
“Nicky—”
Nicholas bolted. He ran from Murray into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. He sat on the toilet and leaned his cheek on the porcelain sink.
Murray knocked on the door. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“Nicky.” Nicholas pulled himself up, turned on the cold-water faucet, and put his wrists under the cool flow. That’s what Jane had always done when the girls came in from playing, agitated, sweating. Nice cool water. Let it run over your wrists. You’ll feel like a whole new person. “Nicky, please.”
Nicholas opened the door. “Get the first plane out,” he said.
“Listen to me, she’s—”
“If there’s not one leaving within the next hour, charter something.”
“She’s here. In London.”
“In London?”
“It happened less than an hour ago, outside the studio.”
“No. How could that happen? There’s some mistake. Some other Cobleigh.”
“There’s no mistake.”
“Jesus, it has to be. How could she be in London?”
“Nicky—”
“Murray, listen to me. She’s never been on a goddamn plane in her life. How could she get here? She probably couldn’t even take a boat. Come on, Murray. It’s not her.”
“It is, Nicky. It’s Jane.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No!”
They were waiting for him outside the corridor of the emergency room: the hospital triumvirate—the administrator, the neurologist, the neurosurgeon—more nurses than were necessary, the press.
“Out!” the administrator called to the photographers. He put his hand in front of a lens that was pointed at Nicholas. “You are not to—”
“Mr. Cobleigh, I’m Alfred Sadgrove, the neurologist, and this is—”
“Where is she?” Nicholas bellowed.
“Nicky.” Murray tried to soothe him.
“Where the hell did you take her?”
“Look at him!” one nurse said.
“Shorter than I expected,” said another.
“—the neurosurgeon, Sir Anthony Bradley. He will tell you—”
“Where is she, for Christ’s sake?” It was so hot in that corridor. All those damp red foreheads shining at him.
“You see, Mr. Cobleigh—”
The rumbling of wheels, the slap of fast-moving feet cut the doctor off. Murray grasped Nicholas’s arm and pulled him to the wall so a patient on a hospital cart could be wheeled in. Not Jane. A man with a fat belly, his hand and forearm wrapped in a blood-drenched towel. “Coming through!” an attendant pushing the gurney shouted. The man’s wife rushed along, running to remain at her husband’s bedside. “Stanley,” she whimpered. “Stanley.” Suddenly she slowed, stiffened, and stopped. She stood before Nicholas, eyes expanding. Her hand, an upside-down pendulum, patted her hair again and again. She was so close. He turned and squeezed his eyes shut. He opened them a moment later, when he felt her go. She was running toward the emergency-room doors closing behind her husband, shouting “Stanley!”
One of the three was beside him. The Sir. Very tall. Nicholas looked up. “She’s been taken to intensive care, Mr. Cobleigh. You may see her shortly. I ordered a CAT scan of her brain as soon as she was brought in.”
“Her brain,” he said. Her head, Murray had said. “Not her skull?”
“Oh, yes. She has a basilar skull fracture on the right side. Compound to the right ear.”
“Her brain?”
“Yes. You see, it is rather a serious injury. Apparently, she was hit, thrown into the air, and crashed to the ground. Her head hit the pavement. When she was brought in, she was not communicating coherently at all.”
“Well, she was hit by a car.” What did they expect her to do, hold a conversation with them? “The accident was a shock,” Nicholas tried to explain to the man. “And if she had a skull fracture, then…” Nicholas stopped talking. The neurosurgeon was looking down at him over his hump of a nose.
“Mr. Cobleigh, I’m afraid it is not that simple. Your wife has contusions on both sides of the brain. The CAT scan shows no focal clot at the moment, but we must monitor her carefully.”
Nicholas tried to nod his understanding. He didn’t understand. “Why?” he asked softly.
“We must be concerned about a delayed intercranial hematoma.”
“What?”
“A blood clot. Right now, she’s slipped into a somewhat somnolent state. We are inserting an intercranial pressure monitor to make certain—”
“If the pressure builds?”
“We might well have to operate.”
“Then she’ll be all right?”
The surgeon peered at Nicholas, searching his face, as if he were a fan looking for a signal that a request for an autograph would be granted. “Mr. Cobleigh,” he said tentatively.
“Yes,” Nicholas breathed.
“We simply don’t know.”
They waited for the elevator: the Englishmen in a tight knot, Nicholas and Murray behind them.
“Listen, Nicky,” Murray said, “maybe it’s not so bad. Maybe we’ll get up there and she’ll have a big smile on her face and say ‘Hey, get me out of this place.’”
“Murray, please. I don’t feel like talking.” Nicholas was watching the neurosurgeon. He had a noble head, one that would be more appropriate on a pedestal than on a human neck. Nicholas decided to check if his title was inherited or conferred; if it was inherited, he would not let him near Jane.
“Nicky, just one thing. This could be one big zero. I mean, you hear about people having fractured skulls all the time. I remember, this wasn’t a fractured skull, but still…I was representing—years ago—Harry Bluestone, the comedian. Remember him? The one with the monologue about his brother Irving? A Mack truck drove over his foot and you know what happened? Nothing!”
Jesus, dear Jesus, she looks like a puppet. A small circle of shaved scalp. A piece of implanted metal.
“The pressure monitor,” one of the Englishmen said.
A puppet. Wires snaking out from the metal in her skull. Intravenous tube from her arm. Ugly yellowish tube coming out of her mouth.
Jesus, let her not be dead. So still. So white. Never like that before. Her golden color gone. She nearly blended with the sheet. But she breathed, she breathed.
The other arm bandaged against her chest. At an odd angle, like a chicken wing.
“Simple fracture of the humerus,” one of them said. “Nothing to be concerned about.” They all sounded alike, those English voices.
She was so straight, as though laid out, which was awful, even if she was breathing. Unnatural, because even in the deepest sleep she would fling an arm across the pillow or lie on her side and draw up her knees. Never flat like this, so stiff, fingers rigid, as though they’d been glued onto her hands. Her fingers always had curled in sleep, like a baby’s. When he’d slip his finger into that loose fist she always made in sleep, her hand would close tight upon it. “Jane.”
She did not move.
“Jane.”
He stared at the white hand. Such a wrong color for her. And there was her wedding ring. Real gold! the jeweler in Maryland had assured them. Real! His was in the box with his cuff links. He’d slipped it under the velvet lining, so he wouldn’t have to see it every day.
He looked around. Murray was right beside him. “My wedding ring’s in my cuff link box,” Nicholas said.
“Fortunately, there’s no cervical spinal injury,” one of the three declared.
“However,” another declared, “you do understand, Mr. Cobleigh, that the prognosis is…guarded.”
Her feet were sticking out from the sheet that covered her stomach and legs. He sidestepped to the end of th
e bed and put his hand around her ankle. Not warm, but not cold.
“Naturally, if you wish to call in other…”
“Although you’re fortunate, you know. We have excellent facilities for dealing with this sort of injury. Not all hospitals do. And of course, Sir Anthony’s reputation is…”
Nicholas rubbed his thumb back and forth. Velvet. Her skin was still pure velvet. Then he pulled down the sheet and tucked it under her feet.
“Mr. Cobleigh, I have arranged for you to use my office while you are here. We certainly don’t want you disturbed further by photographers.”
“Murray,” Nicholas said, “I want my ring.”
Nicholas sat in the desk chair. It seemed to be adjusted for someone with a back condition, because it thrust him forward, forcing him to lean on the desk. Murray stood behind him.
“Nicky,” he muttered, “you’re very appreciative, blah, blah, blah.”
Nicholas glanced across the room to the administrator of the hospital. “I appreciate your letting me use your office.”
“It’s nothing, nothing at all, Mr. Cobleigh.”
“It’s after nine,” Murray said. “We’ll be leaving for the night. Naturally, if there’s any change in Mrs. Cobleigh’s condition—”
“Of course,” the administrator said. “We’ll call immediately.”
Nicholas allowed Murray to lead him again, this time through another corridor and out a side entrance, where a taxi waited. Nicholas’s limousine, parked in front of the hospital, was being watched by reporters. “You want to go back to the house, Nicky?”
“What?” Nicholas asked. He wasn’t absorbing things. Between visits to the intensive care unit, he’d spent the afternoon in the administrator’s office, a palace-sized room with dark hunting prints blotching the yellow walls. Horses and hounds leaped over hedges; foxes were blood-red streaks. Despite its high ceiling and the massive desk, the room felt insubstantial, a set for some Grade C film he was doomed to make. He’d sat, numbed, patient, waiting for a director to come along and tell him what to do. He pressed his fingers against his eyes. They felt too big for their sockets, the way they did after too many takes under high-key lighting.
“Do you want to go back to the house, Nicky? You can come back to the hotel with me.”
He couldn’t think straight. He covered his face with his hands and was taken aback by the mass of hair; he’d forgotten the beard he’d had for three months, that he’d grown for William. He put his hands in his lap.
“The house,” he said finally. “The girls are going to call when they get to the airport in New York.” The taxi crept through the empty streets as if there were a massive traffic jam. “Did you get Rhodes?”
“Finally. First you get the Mykonos operator and explain you want to speak with someone named Rhodes Heissenhuber. That took three quarters of an hour. Then they had to find him. Anyhow, they’ll get the first plane off the island to Athens and then come straight to London. Rhodes and his friend—who’s married to your cousin.”
“Philip Gray.”
For several minutes, about an hour after he first saw Jane, a fit of activity had seized Nicholas. He’d issued commands: get one—no, two—of the best American neurosurgeons and fly them over; check on this Sir Anthony Bradley; charter a plane to get the girls from camp in Maine to JFK and book them on the first plane to London; find Rhodes; arrange with Arthur for them to shoot around me. Then, as if he’d run ten miles or played four sets of tennis, he slipped into weak-limbed lethargy. He could barely lift the endless cups of tea people kept placing before him.
“Philip Gray,” Murray repeated. “You know he’s into cable TV, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“But they say most of his money’s in things like Japanese steel and rare metals.” Murray had burst into tears after they’d left the intensive care unit, but once he’d regained his composure, he’d begun talking double-time, as if an assault of ceaseless, easy patter could topple reality and reinstate a life where everything was normal. “Anyway, Rhodes said they’ll come right to the hospital. Rhodes’ll call from the airport but just in case there’s a mix-up, here’s the phone number of Gray’s apartment. He keeps an apartment here. Pardon me, a flat.” He tucked a folded rectangle of paper into Nicholas’s hand. “What else?” Murray asked himself. “Oh, the two American neurosurgeons are due to land any minute. They’ll go from Heathrow right to the hospital, then call you. I put them up at the Connaught, but if you want, they’ll come to the house to report to you.”
The taxi stopped at a red light. The driver turned around and gazed directly at Nicholas. The light changed. The driver continued to stare, a bright expression of triumph in his eyes: a trapper who’d set out expecting rabbit and found ermine instead. Nicholas averted his head. Murray’s relaxed, conversational pose vanished. Suddenly, he sat upright—a martinet—clenched his fist, and banged on the partition between them and the driver with a fury that startled Nicholas nearly as much as it did the driver. The taxi raced toward Berkeley Square.
When Murray dropped Nicholas at the house, the door opened before he had climbed the first step. He walked into the dim hall, half expecting the butler to take his coat. He sighed. It was summer. He wasn’t wearing a coat. He was still in costume—cotton trousers and a tissue-thin leather vest—with the white doctor’s smock someone had gotten for him when he started to shiver. He glanced around but did not see the butler.
“Oh, Nicholas!”
He looked down. There, arms wide open, was Pamela.
“Nicholas, I’m so terribly sorry.” Her arms went around his waist. “Such an awful, awful shock.” Her head leaned against his chest. “Even after all this time. You must still feel so—”
He pulled away from her. It was not easy. Her thin arms were strong. “Nicholas!” She followed as he walked to the library. “Let me get you a drink.” She scurried past him and, the moment he sat, pressed a large straight vodka into his hand. “There,” she said. “Finish that and I’ll pour you another.”
She stood before him, waiting for him to drink. He looked straight ahead, so all he could see was the print of her silk pajamas, crescents, silvery slivers of moon on darkness, but with her so close he saw only the space between her narrow hips, and the pattern didn’t look celestial at all, but resembled giant fingernail parings. He put the drink down onto the rug.
Pamela knelt and picked it up. “Here. Take it. You’re in a state of shock.” She held the glass out to him. He did not take it. “Nicholas, please.” She put the glass back on the rug and took his hand. “I wish I could wish it away,” she said. “So you wouldn’t have to go through this pain.” He looked at her hands holding his. She wore the emerald he had given her on her left finger, like an engagement ring. It covered the area between her two knuckles. “Oh, Nicholas,” she murmured. “It’s so awful. Did you call the girls?”
He nodded, now looking at the crescents on her sleeve. She put her hands under his chin, lifted up his face, gazed into his eyes. She bent down and softly kissed his forehead, then his mouth. Her loose hair fell like blinders on either side of his face.
“Pamela,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Please. I understand. If you weren’t moved, I’d wonder what kind of a person you were. It just shows—”
“I think you’ll have to leave.”
“Leave?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know how to say this any better, and I’m too shaken up to—”
“The girls will resent my being here. I know you’re probably right, and if you want, I’ll go to a hotel, but Nicholas, in the long run, I think it’s much better for them to deal with the realities of the situation.”
“The realities,” he said.
“I honestly think so, Nicholas.” Again, she lifted the drink. This time he accepted it. “You know I won’t be intrusive. But I think I should be a presence. And also, from a purely practical point of view, I can b
e here to help. You need someone to lean on.”
“Pamela, I would like you to leave London.”
“No.” She knelt and rested her arms on his knees. “Nicholas, no.” He eased her arms off, so she looked like a supplicant before him. “Don’t give in to appearances, Nicholas. Please. I promise you I won’t do anything or say anything—”
“It’s not that.”
“Then why can’t I stay here? I’ll go to a hotel, okay? But I have to tell you. I’m completely aware that you’re under enormous stress, but I think you’re treating me very shabbily.”
“I know I am. And I’m sorry about it, but it can’t be helped.”
“Will you have Murray or your secretary take care of reservations?”
“Pamela, listen to me. The reservations will be plane reservations. You’ll go back to New York, to NYU, and resume your life. I know how long you’ve wanted to go back to your doctoral work and—”
“No.”
“Please. I know it’s awkward and abrupt, but there’s no other way I can handle it.”
“When can I come back?”
For the first time he looked into her face. “Pamela,” Nicholas said. “I’m sorry. I don’t want you to come back. It’s over. I’ll take responsibility for getting you settled in New York and for your tuition and—”
“No.”
“Yes. Listen to me. Try to understand. Ever since we’ve been in London—even before—all I’ve been thinking about is Jane. She’s my wife. I want to be with her. I belong with her.”
“It’s because she’s been hurt. You’re in shock. You feel guilty, responsible, but you’re not. Nicholas, I’m telling you, the minute she gets better—”
“I belong with her.”
Pamela rose. He looked up, and she seemed to have swollen to normal adult size. “You belong with her? She doesn’t even know you’re there. I heard the radio. Her condition is grave. She’s unconscious. There’s possible brain damage. Didn’t they tell you that?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does. You’re sending me away. I know this sounds brutal, but what if she dies or becomes a vegetable? Did you ever think of that? Did you, Nicholas? You’re very emotional now, but try to project into the future. Don’t let some medieval notion of gallantry cloud your thinking. Be at her sickbed. Fine. Good. I admire you for it. Everyone will. I understand completely that there’s a certain public stance you have to maintain for the time being.”