He jerked his head toward the hall. “Come to the living room, please.”
Her breath pushing harshly inside her lungs, she followed him there and sat on an unadorned black chair that glittered like wet coal. He went to a white sofa and gracefully folded his tall body onto the sharp angles.
She was embarrassed to look at him, afraid she’d cry. She stared at a piece of Steuben crystal on the coffee table between them. “Are you lookin’ forward to going to Africa?”
“Not really. The Ivory Coast is an affluent country, and Abidjan is a progressive, modern city, but the hospital there can’t compare to those in Europe or America. But I have to serve my time in the national service, and working in west Africa is an appropriate way to do it.”
“Oh. I guess I pictured you out in the jungle somewhere, fighting off lions.”
“No. Abidjan is a very comfortable place. But I will also be treating patients at the rural clinics. Life there is more primitive, I assure you.”
“Whack a lion or two for me,” she told him, her throat tight. “And say hello to Tarzan. Uhmmm, look, don’t worry about me. I didn’t mean to be so dumb, last night.” She started to rise. “Well, I’m off to the grape mines.”
“No. No more. You’ve been fired.”
She sank into the chair again and stared at him. “What?”
“I’ve fired you.” He was not a man to waste words. She had already learned that about him. He was an important person; important people didn’t dawdle. He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and stared into her eyes. “You have other things to do.” He assessed her open-mouthed expression warily. “Are you listening?”
“Like my life depends on it.”
“I want you to prepare to attend the state university this fall. I’m going to pay your way.”
She was aware of her mouth moving, but no sound coming out. She felt a miserable little laugh tickle her throat. Finally she said, “That’s an expensive way to get rid of me!”
“I’m complimenting you, Amy, not insulting you.”
“You always give scholarships to strangers?”
“Do you know how little the money means to me? The cost of sending you to school is such an unimportant amount to me that it’s no sacrifice. So don’t flatter me with your righteous indignation. Strangers? Is that what we are? I assumed we were at least acquainted, and occasionally friendly.”
“If you want me to get out of here and leave you alone, you don’t have to pay me off! Just say, ‘Get out, kid, you’re pesterin’ me!’ ”
“You’re not ‘pestering’ me, although I admit that this conversation is beginning to sound like one of your bad American television shows. Are we actually bickering over a simple gift?”
She made a choking sound. Her voice dropped in an attempt at control. “Why do you want to do it for me? You don’t owe me.”
He reached across the coffee table and grasped her hands. “I don’t want you to struggle hopelessly when all you need is a little help to make a good life for yourself. I’ve seen what that kind of unfairness can do to people.”
“I’m gonna be somebody important. I don’t need charity.”
He said something dire-sounding in French. His large, supple hands tightened around hers in rebuke. “Is this how you repay my friendship? With accusations? You want to torment me?” He began to sound suspiciously melodramatic. “You want me to go off to darkest Africa and be distracted by worrying over your fate? I could be captured by headhunters through sheer carelessness—all because I was thinking about your poverty!”
She squinted at him shrewdly. “Headhunters? In a city?”
“Progressive headhunters.”
Amy snuffled, disgusted but also amused. Her shoulders slumped. “College. You’d spend all that money for somebody you hardly know?”
“Mon dieu! Stop playing the martyr! You’ve slept under my roof for the past three nights! You came to me for help when you were hurt and homeless. You kissed me last night and said some very personal things to me.”
“I’m not a martyr! I’m …” She fumbled, a torrent of frank words battling eighteen years of cautious silence. “I’m … confused.” Amy pulled her hands away from his and covered her face. “I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. I don’t want you to feel guilty or responsible, that’s the way people feel when somebody’s just a chore to be taken care of. I want … oh, God, this is awful. I’m babbling. You’re like some kind of Dr. Kildare and I’m Gidget with brain damage.”
“Stop, stop,” he commanded. “You’re simply younger than I am, that’s all. Much younger. You haven’t had a chance to find out who you are, yet.”
“So do you know who you are?” She raised her head and eyed him fervently. “Who are you, exactly?”
He stiffened, looking wary. “A surgeon. A very good surgeon.”
“And what else?”
His expression darkened. “Games! This is pointless!”
“Are you happy with your life? Are you lonely? What do you do for fun? Don’t you want somebody to love you? Don’t you want to love somebody? Don’t you ever want to go sit on a hill somewhere and howl at the moon?”
“What does this have to do with my paying your way to college?”
She leaned toward him. “What kind of person doesn’t want anybody to care about him, even when the person who cares about him wants only to—to care about him, that’s all! What kind of person uses money to avoid getting involved with other people?”
He vaulted to his feet and sliced the air with a fierce wave of his hand. “Enough of this ridiculous posturing! I have no use for ‘being involved,’ as you put it. I have no time. I’ve offered to pay for your education. Be wise and accept the offer, and don’t expect sentiment along with it!”
Amy gasped. Why hadn’t she thought of it before—she could stay in touch with him this way. Of course! She’d have to let him know how school was going. He wanted to do something impossibly wonderful for her, because he didn’t want to forget her.
Shaking, she jumped up, too. “I accept. God, I accept. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before, that’s all.” She jammed fluttering hands into her shorts’ pockets and struggled not to trip over her own tongue. “I’ll make straight A’s. You’ll see! I know I can do it! And I’ll write to you all the time and tell you what I’m studying—”
“No.” He drew himself up and looked at her coolly. “I’m not your guardian. I’m not your warden. Once I leave the country, you’re on your own. It’s up to you to manage wisely with what I give you.”
“I thought you’d be interested—”
“No. I really won’t be.” His face was set in hard lines that made him look older and more forbidding. He went to a chair and retrieved the gray jacket that matched his pants. Slipping his arms into the tailored material, he gave Amy a brusque nod. “I think you should spend today making some phone calls. Request your academic records from high school. Call the university admissions office and ask for an application. You can have it sent to this address. After I leave for Africa, you may stay here until you leave for school. I’ll have someone assist you with everything you need.”
“Okay,” she said in a small voice. “I don’t know how to thank you. I guess … you don’t really want me to thank you. I don’t think you care whether people are grateful to you, or not.” She raised bewildered eyes to his harsh, impatient ones.
His mouth tightened and he looked away. “When you’re older, you’ll understand that gratitude can be a very demanding emotion. Save it for the people who appreciate it.” He paused. “There is only one thing you can do for me.”
“Sure. What? Anything.”
“I want to take you by the hospital this evening to see a patient of mine. A small boy. He’s heard about you. I’d like for you to perform some of your sleight-of-hand tricks for him. Will you do that for me?”
Perform? Her mouth went dry with dread, but she nodded fervently. “Sure.”
�
�Bon. I’ll come back to pick you up about dinner time.”
“Sure.” She was overcome and could only look blankly at Sebastien. He was going to pay for her college education. He cared about her in some odd, protective way that confused her. He thought so much of the hokey carnival shtick Pop had taught her that he wanted her to entertain one of his patients. But after he left for Africa next week he never wanted to see or hear from her again.
She sank down on the chair. He was watching her closely. He took a beautiful silver pocket watch from his trousers and checked the time. He seemed reluctant to leave. “Are you all right?” he asked.
Amy lifted her chin. “I’m fine. I’m gonna be the first person in my family to go to college. This is a great day. When I get to be president, I’ll send you an invitation to the White House. You better come.”
“You’d make a terrible politician.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re too honest.” He gave her a pensive, heart-stopping look, and she nearly bawled. “And you let yourself care about people too deeply. Good-bye. Be ready about six or so.”
He left. After she heard the front door close behind him with an authoritative click, she forced herself to go into his elite kitchen and fix a huge breakfast. She sat down and stared at it, not eating a bite. She was learning from him. She was going to be tough and determined and successful … at something, certainly not politics or, she added firmly, any other kind of show business. She was going to be serious and dignified and very, very important.
Then she’d find him and make him wish he had cared.
He would never forget the way she looked at this moment. Despite his resolve to be aloof, Sebastien bent closer as Amy folded one hand over Tom’s and lifted the weak, pale fingers gently, fitting a coin through them, over and then under, in a slow imitation of her own skill.
“When you get out of this joint you’ll be able to impress all your girlfriends,” she assured Tom. “Either that, or they’ll call you Ol’ Fast Fingers. You’ll be able to wave and pick your nose at the same time.”
Tom’s eyes glowed. “You’re gross.” His voice was a wisp of sound. “But funny.”
She chuckled. Her hands trembled a little; she had admitted on the way to the hospital that performing made her sick with fear. Sebastien had murmured a platitude about courage while thinking privately that she was only suffering this torture to please him.
She brushed one sweaty palm over the skirt of her ancient sundress and doggedly worked with Tom, her charming, mischievous face set in lines of tension, though she smiled at the boy constantly. When forced into contact with other people she had an easy, loving way that captivated them.
Tom’s weary, intrigued eyes rarely strayed from her face. “Talk some more,” he whispered. “I like to hear you squeak.”
Color flamed in her cheeks, but she made a grimace of comical dismay. “I donated my real voice to Minnie Mouse.” She put her hands alongside her head like mouse ears and, in perfect imitation of a flustered Minnie, said, “Ooooh, Mickey, I couldn’t help it. Tinker Bell flew right into the ceiling fan. Now we’ve got tinkle all over the house.”
Tom smiled, for him, a tremendous effort. Sebastien congratulated himself for bringing Amy to entertain the child. He had wanted to show her what her talent could accomplish, unfettered by her father’s browbeating. He had wanted to give Tom a moment of pleasure. He felt that he had accomplished both.
“I think we’d better let you rest now,” he said gruffly.
Tom’s smile faded. His solemn gaze fell on Sebastien. “You’re going away. I overheard one of the nurses babbling on the phone. She talked real low, but I got good ears.”
“Hmmm. All right, then. Yes, I’m going to work in Africa.”
“I don’t want you to leave.” Tom’s chest moved harshly, and he winced.
“You’re getting well. You’ll hardly notice that I’m gone.”
“Bullshit.”
“Your tongue is very healthy.” Sebastien stepped forward as a rasping sound edged into Tom’s breath. “I should make you apologize for using such language in front of a lady.”
“Aw, bullshit,” Amy interjected. She grinned, then stood by the bed looking from him to Tom curiously. “Hey! I know we haven’t got much visitin’ time left, but what if I show Tom a card trick—”
“No,” Sebastien said, his voice low and calm despite the fact that Tom’s color was rapidly changing from pale to chalky. He studied the child’s half-shut eyes and laid a hand on Tom’s arm. Fear. It jolted him, but he made his voice light. “Now what are you up to, mon petit? Testing these machines again?”
Sebastien glanced at the monitors around the bed while casually reaching for a stethoscope. Tom made a mewling sound. “Something’s wrong.”
“No. You’re tired from our visit, that’s all.” While he listened to Tom’s chest he glanced at Amy. She stepped back from the bed as if sensing a problem, her hands clasped in front of her.
“I’ll take my fanny outside,” she said too cheerfully.
“Sebastien,” Tom cried urgently, and gasped. His frightened eyes stared up into Sebastien’s. “Don’t go. I feel bad.”
“I wore him out,” Amy murmured, her tone full of horror. “I made him talk too much.”
“No.” Sebastien bent over the child and cupped his face. “Calm down. You’re all right.”
“I hurt.”
A chill ran down Sebastien’s spine. He nodded at Amy. “Go to the waiting room. Through the double doors beyond the nurses’ station. I’ll be there in a minute.” She didn’t move, and when he looked at her again she was studying Tom with tears in her eyes. “Out, I said.” Her sentiment unnerved him, made him realize he, too, was upset.
She nodded jerkily. “See ya, Tom.”
The child’s eyes remained focused solely on Sebastien. “Don’t go to Africa. I love you.”
Sebastien fought an impulse to take his hands off the boy’s face. He could deal with anything but this. “You love your grandmother. You love your friends. But me? You hardly know me. You don’t need me very much. You’ll see.”
“You don’t understand.” Tom’s voice was anguished and breathy. He struggled for air.
“Ssssh,” Sebastien crooned. Without appearing hurried he pressed the nurse-call button.
“What are you scared of?” Tom demanded. “Can’t I … love you … even if I’m kickin’ the bucket?”
Sebastien shivered. His guard undone, he gazed blankly at Tom. Amy still hadn’t left the room. Now she made a soft sound of distress. Sebastien shut his eyes. Why had these two troublesome people come into his life at the same time? He was surrounded by love for which he hadn’t asked. And they wanted him to love them in return, which he simply couldn’t afford.
“Sebastien.” Amy was obviously struggling to say something. She faltered, hugged herself, then stepped close to the bed and bent over Tom. The boy’s eyes flickered toward her. “Tom,” she said softly, “Dr. de Savin is sad to be leavin’ you. He just doesn’t know how to say so. He’s sort of like a turtle who won’t come out of his shell because somebody hit him on the noggin once.”
“I … a turtle … mon dieu,” Sebastien said. “What foolishness!”
“Like a turtle,” Tom whispered. Then he looked at Sebastien, his anxiety fading visibly. “Okay. I … love you. I understand. You’re a turtle.”
A nurse stepped inside the cubicle. Sebastien gestured to her to stand by, while he continued to speak with Tom. “You’re a very troublesome patient, you know, and your Minnie-Mouse friend has been a mischievous influence—”
Tom’s eyes rolled back. Alarms sounded from the machines attached to him. Sebastien whipped the sheet from Tom’s body. “Amy. Get out.”
She made a horrified sound and backed from the room as the nurse rushed past her. Sebastien studied the heart monitor near the bed. There was electrical activity, but no regular heartbeat. The nurse called a code for the emergency team. Sebastien plan
ted the heel of one hand on Tom’s unmoving chest. He began CPR and continued it while people filled the room, along with a crash cart bearing a defibrillator. Routines were followed precisely. Procedures were attempted. They failed.
I won’t let you go. You can’t die, Sebastien told Tom in silent fury, the despair rising in him. The potency of it frightened him; he had let himself become close to Tom, and now he was paying the price.
For the third time he shocked Tom’s heart with the defibrillator. The lines on the heart monitor leapt, found an erratic rhythm, and clung to it. Nurses and residents kept working and watched in breathless silence, an almost palpable atmosphere of hope pervading the cubicle. Sebastien ground his teeth and stared at Tom’s ashen, lifeless face. Damn you, have the courage to fight. Don’t be a coward.
He passed a hand over his forehead and found a sheen of sweat there. Shame nettled him. He was cursing a sick child for being helpless. But the fury, his own helpless rage, would not let go.
“We’re losing him again,” a nurse said. “No pulse.”
Sebastien stepped back. “Let’s get him to the OR. I’m going to reopen him.”
In the operating room he opened Tom’s chest and found what he had feared. Several sutures from the previous surgery had not held. Blood poured from Tom’s heart, flooding the chest cavity, soaking Sebastien’s hands.
“He’s bleeding out. He’s gone,” a resident said.
“No.” Sebastien issued soft, fierce orders. Hands moved around his, helped, obeyed, tried to match his skill and failed. He cursed the heart silently, bit the inside of his mouth until it bled, fought to remedy another surgeon’s poor work, while blood streamed everywhere. But he was winning. He could feel it.
There was no dramatic moment when life changed to death, just a slow defeat that pulled every ounce of energy from Sebastien’s body. Finally, it was time to stop pretending that death had not come. Sebastien stood in stunned silence, with his hands still inside Tom’s chest. Dully he stared at the carnage that had once been a wonderful little boy. He stepped back, blood dripping from his gloved fingertips. “I guess we can close now,” someone said wearily.
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