The darkness lifted slowly, and Kitty could make out colors, though everything was blurry. A large patch of white stood directly in front of her. She wanted to reach out and touch it, but every part of her body felt heavy. Her eyes clearing, she made out a face above the white. A man with a full, kind face, fair skin, and receding blond hair gazed at her from behind wire-frame glasses. She was reassured by his smile, then became aware that he was holding her hand. A pleasant way to awaken in the morning, she thought hazily, and smiled.
“A smile, that’s encouraging,” he said. “You’ve been sleeping a while.”
“She was too far away. I couldn’t reach her,” she said, remembering a woman at the end of a tunnel. Thoughts rushed in a jumble, unrelated, as they do in the last seconds before sleep.
She tried to lift her head to look around, but pain seared her neck and skull.
“Let’s ease that pain,” he said. The last she remembered was that kind face above her as the injection did its work and she floated into a pleasant sleep.
She awoke the next morning feeling more alert. Again, he was with her, smiling and reassuring. This time he had a stethoscope around his neck. She looked around the room. She was in a hospital!
Remembering the pain she had experienced trying to move her head, she reached up and started when she felt bandages around her skull.
“What happened to me?”
“Most important, you’re going to be all right. You were in an accident.”
“Where? I don’t remember.”
“You’ve blocked it out; that’s not surprising. In front of the bank, you were hit by some runaway horses. You sustained a blow to your head, and your legs were broken.”
At her horrified expression, he hastened to reassure her. “You have come back beautifully, and you will continue to improve. In no time you’ll be out of here.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. You’re a fighter, Deirdre. I’m Charles Lawrence,” he continued. “I was at the scene of the accident. I’ve been taking care of you. Because we didn’t know your name, the nurses named you Deirdre. I’m sorry, I just got used to thinking of you as Deirdre. But now we can know your real name.”
“My name.” She tried to get your mind to function. Her thoughts were still confused. “Doctor, I can’t remember my name.”
“Don’t concern yourself with that now,” he said, patting her hand. “You had a blood clot that made your heart stop for a few minutes. I thought you were dead. You are a miracle woman. Forgetting your name is minor. Everything will come back to you. After all, you were in a coma for five weeks.”
“Five weeks!” Perhaps that explained why her brain worked in many directions and at the same time in no direction.
“I must leave you now,” Dr. Lawrence said. “You need plenty of rest. Don’t overwork your brain. These things take time.” He said goodbye, with a smile that said all would be well, leaving her with brooding thoughts until, exhausted, she fell asleep.
She was sitting up in bed the next time Dr. Lawrence returned.
He pulled up a chair beside her bed. “I’m so pleased.”
“I’m grinning as though sitting up were an accomplishment,” she said.
“It is,” he protested. “You’ve come a long way.”
“Not long enough. I spend my waking hours trying to bend my brain around corners where it doesn’t want to go. But I will remember.”
“That’s the right attitude. From the way you’ve recovered so far, you’re a strong woman. You just have to be patient.”
“Perhaps this will help you.” He opened a box and held up a rose wool dress, a simple cut with long sleeves and a plain neck. “You wore this the day of the accident.”
She took the dress and slid her hands across it. It was so simple. If only it had a touch of adornment, a pin or lace collar that might stir a memory.
“I know this is good fabric,” she said.
“Perhaps from your mother?”
She closed her eyes. “Yes. I see her hands, sewing, expert hands.” Her face showed the strain of trying to remember. She shook her head sadly. “But I don’t see the face.”
“I play a game with myself when I can’t remember a name. I go through the alphabet, and sometimes a letter triggers a name—A,” he announced.
She screwed up her face in concentration, finally shaking her head.
“B” and “C.”
Nothing.
“D,” Dr. Lawrence said.
“D,” she repeated. “Dah, Dih, Dim.” She closed her eyes, and shadowy visions floated through her mind. She sighed. “I thought there was something. Perhaps it’s only that my name is Deirdre.”
“Do you think by some coincidence that is your name?”
“How can I even say? The ‘D’ evoked something. The only thing I know is that I don’t know.”
Her eyelids began to droop, and Charles Lawrence was aware of how exhausting this exercise had been for her. He wanted to stay longer, but she was drifting off to sleep. He turned back for a final look at her, slim and delicate in the hospital bed, her auburn curls surrounding her face. He guessed she was about nineteen, but asleep, she looked no more than twelve. As he continued his rounds, he already looked forward to seeing her again.
She grew stronger every day, sitting up, then hobbling about on crutches, devouring magazines and newspapers, searching for news that might trigger a forgotten memory. Every waking hour was consumed by her effort to remember. She turned her frustration into determination to walk again on her own.
Charles Lawrence found time to be with her often. As time went on, he understood his desire to help her, to be with her, was more than concern for a patient. No, it was more.
Two months after she awoke from her coma, he watched her face light up when he said he was taking her for a walk.
“Oh, thank you, Doctor,” she said, her eyes sparkling for the first time. She looked out the window and her smile faded. “I don’t have a coat.”
He handed her a box. “You do now.”
She pulled out a gray cloth coat with a fitted waist and velvet collar. It fit her perfectly. “I feel like a princess in it,” she said. “How can I ever thank you, Dr. Lawrence?”
“No need to,” he said, grinning. “And please call me Charles. Despite my thinning hair, I’m only twenty-seven.”
With Charles supporting her, she was able to walk a few blocks. The winter air invigorated her, and she urged him to let her walk just another block.
“I think you’ve had more than enough exercise for your first day out,” he said.
“Oh, please, just those shops across the street. Let’s look in the window.”
He had never seen her so animated, and he finally gave in. They crossed the street to a jewelry shop that had silver bowls and marble statuettes in the window. She chatted as she looked, until her eye caught a gold Celtic cross. She stopped in mid-sentence, remembrance flooding through her.
“What is it, Deirdre?”
“Charles, I remember that cross. We had one like it in my home, in a place of honor in the parlor. My mother told me she and my father had brought it over from Ireland.” She turned to him, her face flushed. “I’m Irish, and my mother…I can picture her face. She was the woman in my vision.”
In her excitement, she shifted her weight to her weaker leg and lost her balance. Charles slid his arm around her to steady her. He hesitated a moment, so close to her, then kissed her lightly on the lips.
“That’s wonderful news!”
The kiss, which took her by surprise, sent her into a turmoil. It was pleasant, perhaps even wanted, yet she felt guilty. Is there a man whom I loved? Am I free to love? How can I be free until I know who I am? She strained to remember more. Perhaps it was the kiss that unexpectedly shut out her fleeting memory of the past. Whatever it was, the moment was gone.
“I’m not concerned,” Charles said. “All you need is a little more time.” He took her hand, and they wa
lked on.
After Charles had left her, she sat in her hospital room. The initial euphoria of remembering was gone. She was getting better, she knew. She was able to think ahead in her life, but questions haunted her. What will I do when I leave the hospital? Where will I live? Think more, she told herself. Perhaps I can borrow money from Charles to rent a place. Then I can get a job. What kind of job? Maybe I can sew like my mother. Can I teach? I love to read. How long did I go to school?
She tried to concentrate on immediate concerns, but her mind leaped ahead. What if I never remember who I am? What if I find out who my family is and they don’t want me? Why did I feel a strange feeling when Charles kissed me? Was it an ache? Is there someone else?
Weary, she crawled into bed. No amount of straining would reveal any more to her. In that fateful moment when she stepped off the curb, she had lost nearly everything—her memory, her past, her future.
Thank the Lord, she thought, I am alive and getting well. I have the present. And I have Charles.
Chapter 30
In the weeks that followed the loss of Kitty, Vittorio kept to himself at work, not joining his friends at lunch, preferring to walk the streets or aimlessly pound a ball against a wall in a nearby lot. When they persuaded him to join them, if they asked him a question to draw him into the conversation, he’d smile politely. “I’m sorry, I mustn’t have been listening.” They grew tired of trying to help him and eventually left him on his own. Vittorio preferred it that way. He knew he was no company for anyone.
Being without Kitty intensified the loss of his friend. If Paolo had not moved to Boston, he could have talked to him. He would have listened. Paolo might not have understood completely, but he would have listened.
Vittorio continued to go to work, reporting on time and doing whatever was assigned. He sawed, he planed, he hammered, he grieved.
A part of him still hoped. There were times when he’d look up from his work, expecting to see her standing there. At home he’d stare out the window, waiting for her to walk up the steps of his tenement. He took a day off and went to Kitty’s house. He searched the windows as he walked up the steps. No Kitty smiled out at him from behind the glass. The doorknocker echoed as he waited in vain. Suddenly, he couldn’t bear not communicating with her. In the candy store around the corner, he bought a notepad and pen, sat at the counter and wrote her a letter.
Dear Kitty,
Since you decided not to marry me, I have been unhappy every day. I think of you all the time. If you still love me, I will wait for you, no matter how long it takes. Please see me, or at least write to me if you still love me. A note is all I need and I will wait for you.
I will love you always.
Vittorio
He walked across the street and dropped the letter into her mailbox; then he walked the city streets. He found himself going to all the places they had shared together—the ball field, the park, the walk along the river. He remembered the clothes she wore—the dress the color of cool water, the green ribbons in her hair. He remembered the way she’d laugh at herself with dirt on her face. Her determination to play ball. Her delight in the picnic he had prepared for her, and her surprise when their canoe overturned. He saw her face before him, remembered her so close he could feel her breath on his neck and count every lash that framed her eyes. He knew her moods, her kindness, her love of fun. He missed her softness, and her strength. All the things Kitty was were etched in his heart.
That evening, he went to the school, hoping to see here there, but with no success. After class, he spoke to Miss Cass.
“Kitty hasn’t been to class since I saw you last,” she said. “You know, her father was against her studying, but she came anyway. Perhaps he made her stop. I tried to see her once, but she wasn’t at home. It’s strange how she abruptly stopped everything. I’ll try again to see her.”
“If you do,” Vittorio said, “please tell her I love her.”
Looking at the handsome young man in front of her and feeling his sadness, she put her hand on his. “Of course I will. I always believed that she loved you, too. Have faith.” She watched him wander away. “Such a shame,” she sighed.
Vittorio continued his walk, the chill of the evening echoing the chill in his heart.
His collar turned up, he dug his hands deep in his pockets and in the stillness heard the crisp tap of his footsteps on the pavement. When he reached his tenement, he stood on the steps and looked up at the night sky. The moon had risen high in the heavens, like an icy sliver from which cascaded a waterfall of stars. The moon is so beautiful, surrounded by stars, yet so alone. He remembered the story Kitty had told him of the sun and the moon, lovers never to meet. The meaning of the fable hit him with full impact, and he felt lonelier than he had ever felt when he dreamed of his father. He raced up the stairs to his tenement. The walls offered refuge, and he could draw the shade against the beauty and sadness of the sky.
“Vittorio!” Ottavia, who had been dozing on the sofa, rose and kissed her son. She was nearly sick with worry about him, but she showed him a smiling face. At least she had one cheerful piece of news, a letter from the Crespis. He read it silently. Both the part from Antonia and the few lines from Paolo told the same story. They liked Boston; it was not as big or as crowded as New York. They were happy in their new home, but they missed their good friends, their famiglia in America. Paolo wrote glowingly of his work there, and the opportunity still available to Vittorio if only he’d say the word. The letter ended with entreaties to join them in Boston.
Ottavia knew that Vittorio had to do something to rouse himself from his torpor. His once easy smile was now polite and strained. His eyes were ringed with circles. Where there were once jokes and songs, now there was silence. She had stood by quietly and prayed. Now the letter seemed in answer to her prayers.
“It was good to hear from Antonia,” she ventured.
“Paolo, too.” His face warmed with the trace of a smile.
“Remember the games you and Paolo used to play on the ship? I had to keep my eye on you two, to keep you out of mischief.”
“Mama, you exaggerate. I think Paolo and I had to keep all the men away.”
“Nonsense. The salt water hurt your memory,” she teased. “Remember the dinners around their table? The time you and Paolo knocked the bowl of apples to the floor and we made you get under the table to pick them up?”
“Paolo and I had more fun crawling around under there, tossing apples at each other.”
They grew silent, remembering the good times.
“Vittorio”—Ottavia played with a doily on the arm of the chair—“what of this opportunity in Boston? If it is this good, we could buy a small house near them.”
He was silent for a while. Finally, he nodded his head. “We could buy better than a small house, right near Aunt Antonia, with a little garden in the back.”
“Oh, Vittorio, could we? A change could help us both.” Before her son could reconsider, Ottavia jumped up and hugged him. “You’ve made me so happy. I know we will like it there.”
“Let’s move as soon as we can,” he said. “There’s nothing for me in New York.”
****
The day she left the hospital, Kitty wore a navy wool dress that Charles had bought for her. On the white lace collar she pinned a silver heart, a gift from him as well. Sitting on the bed waiting for him, she looked around the room. In the months she had been there, the hospital had become the only home she remembered. She knew the way the morning sun streamed in through the window to light the far wall. She knew which turn in bed made it creak like a cat’s cry. She liked the rough texture of the white blanket under her chin and knew each nurse by her step before she ever looked in on her. Its familiarity was a comfort, especially in a world in which little else was familiar.
Charles had arranged for her to stay with an older woman, the aunt of a doctor friend. She didn’t want to take so much from him, but she had no choice. She prayed that she would r
ecover her memory and not continue her life in limbo.
The paper bag at her feet carried all her worldly belongings, including the dress she had worn when Charles brought her to the hospital, and a toothbrush and comb. The nurses had given her a gift of a white blouse, one she knew she would get lots of wear from as she looked for work.
She felt she owed him so much; that in itself was a burden. How ungrateful, she thought with a pang. She owed him everything; there was nothing she wouldn’t do for him if he asked.
When he arrived, she looked up at him. “I’m happy, Charles, but you know, this has become my home. I don’t know what’s out there for me.”
“As long as I’m here, you don’t have to worry.” As she rose from the bed, he put his arm around her.
“Thank you, Charles.”
“I always help a lady, especially one with newly mended legs,” he said lightly.
“I mean, thank you for everything.” She reached up and kissed him on the cheek.
He beamed at her. “Come on, I’m taking you to dinner.”
As they stepped outside, he ushered her to a gleaming black Ford. She gasped at the beauty of it.
He helped her into the passenger side. “My new purchase.” He grinned.
“I love it. I’ve never been in a car before.” She caught herself. “At least, I don’t think I’ve been in one.” She thrust that thought behind her, determined to enjoy the moment. She was better, and here she was with Charles, who was like a little boy with a new toy, showing her the shift, the brakes, the upholstery that felt like velvet. She laughed at his exuberance and shrieked when he roared off into traffic.
The restaurant was uptown, a lovely one with pink walls and white tablecloths and napkins. She looked down at the carpeting as the maitre d’ showed them to their table.
“No sawdust on the floor,” she mused.
Charles raised his eyebrows. “Why do you say that?”
Choices of the Heart Page 19