The Promise of Stardust

by Priscille Sibley

  “Actually, she nearly hemorrhaged to death, didn’t she?”

  I drew a breath, remembering. On that night, on our kitchen floor, I saw more blood than I’d ever seen outside of a hospital.

  Jake put his hand on my shoulder. “You okay?” he whispered.

  I nodded and tried to stay present in the courtroom. I looked up and saw my mother staring at me. And unlike Jake, she didn’t look concerned. Her expression was pointed, almost accusatory.

  “Her blood loss easily could have been fatal,” Clint said.

  I followed Jake to a high-rise down in the Old Port. The contemporary exterior contrasted with the gentleman’s-club decor of the inner offices. Leather-bound law texts lined the shelves.

  “The cross-examination didn’t go well,” I said.

  Jake hadn’t fixed the damage Klein leveled on cross-examination, and I couldn’t sit still while we reviewed the past two hours. Instead I paced the generous expanse between his desk and a conference table at the other side of the room.

  “It could have gone worse,” he said. “If she hadn’t gotten pneumonia or kidney problems already, it could have gone better.”

  “Klein made it sound like Elle … Hell, everything he pulled out of Clint was the truth. It’s been twenty-six fucking days, and she’s already had pneumonia and suffered kidney damage. We need another fourteen weeks, twenty weeks would be better. The APS could kill her or the baby—”

  “Stop. I realize you’re worried about her medical challenges. But the primary legal issue is what Elle would want done on her behalf. We don’t have the best evidence to make our case on that point. We need something substantial in writing that backs up your contention. Have you found anything in her diaries?”

  “Nothing besides what you already know. I decided to fight for the baby based on our conversations over the years.”

  Jake studied his hands. “We need more. We’re out of time. You have to let me help you go through the diaries.”

  I wasn’t about to tell Jake that either Elle or my mother might have done a Kevorkian on Alice McClure. He might find another confession of matricide. “I don’t know what happened to the baby ones.”

  “Matt—”

  “They. Are. Private.” I glared at Jake, letting him know I meant business. “Besides, I don’t think there’s anything in them.”

  “Your life is already front-page news all over the world. Under the circumstances, maybe you should forgo your First Amendment right to privacy and let me see them.” He offered an engaging grin, making me think that First Amendment bullshit was supposed to be his idea of a joke.

  I shook my head.

  His office phone rang and he picked up the receiver. “Yeah. Put her through. Dr. Clarke, we’re expecting you to testify in thirty—” Pause. “I see.” Jake gave Blythe the phone number of the courthouse and instructed her to call it once she was free.

  “What?” I said.

  “She’s tied up with a complicated delivery. And another of her patients was just admitted with preterm labor or something.”

  “She can’t get to court?” I asked.

  “No. And I want her to testify before you. We set up possibility. The judge sees the ultrasound of a baby. Then we hit him with how much you love your wife and how much the two of you wanted a child,” he said as he laid out index cards in order. “Then I want to set the framework for the fetal guardianship issue. Timing will be important; otherwise, it would smack of desperation. I want it to be a deliberate card we play.”

  “Meaning?”

  “After I question you, I’ll call Father Meehan. The Catholic Church teaches life begins at conception, and you and Elle are Catholic. Therefore, fighting for this baby becomes part of your constitutional right to practice your religion. I then ask the judge to give you guardianship of your unborn baby, protecting that life, acting on Elle’s behalf to protect her unborn child, exercising her right to practice her religion. It’s a little transparent, but constitutionally, it could work. At the very least it would be grounds for an appeal. We could also base an appeal on the Texas advanced directive. There’s no way the judge should be considering it. In Texas, the law prohibits the removal of a pregnant woman’s life support. If the appeal fails, we can file a cert petition. And that’s all we need. If it goes before the Supreme Court, chances are we’ll have time for that baby of yours to be born alive.”

  “What if the Supreme Court denies the cert petition?”

  Jake smiled and shook his head. “Did anyone ever tell you you worry too much? Have a little faith in me. I told you, I can pull this off. Let’s go back to court and see what we can do about Dr. Clarke’s absence.”

  “One more thing, I forgot to tell you I got a letter from Carol Wentworth. You remember her?”

  “Of course.”

  I slid the letter across the desk to him.

  He picked it up and scanned it. “The U.S. attorney general?”

  44

  Five Years Before the Accident

  If I ever marginalized a woman, it was Carol, but I didn’t intend to and I didn’t believe I was doing it at the time. I honestly thought she and I could have the kind of marriage that was built on mutual respect. We were good together. Nevertheless, I didn’t tell my fiancée that I’d run into Elle in Maine, and that my few hours with her cast doubts on my decision to get married. Carol didn’t need to know. I would only hurt her if I eased my conscience by confessing that I’d kissed Elle.

  Besides, we didn’t do anything, not really, and a few doubts were normal. Logically, I could recite a dozen reasons to marry Carol. Emotionally, my tether to Elle unraveled them one by one, but I convinced myself this connection was simply a remnant of childhood and, as she said, lust.

  All right, I loved her.

  Over the next few months Elle grew more distant, almost detached. When we spoke on the phone, she avoided talking about herself. Hell, she didn’t even ask many personal questions about me. We talked about work, hers and mine. If I mentioned Carol, Elle seemed to find reasons to get off the phone. I told myself we were growing apart, and that maybe we should; after all, I was getting married. Still, I hated that marriage meant cutting Elle out of my life. Or worse, that maybe she was cutting herself out.

  In December, Phil Grey paged me at work and asked if we could get together while he was in Manhattan. I was on call all weekend, but first thing Monday morning he met me at the hospital. He shook my hand. “You didn’t tell me winter in Maine came on November first.”

  “Trust me,” I said. “You won’t see real winter until February and March.”

  “March is springtime.”

  “In Maine, May is springtime,” I said.

  “So, you wouldn’t be interested in joining the practice with me?” He wagged his head toward the door. “Let’s go get breakfast and talk. I’m buying.”

  In a diner not far from the hospital, Phil launched into a prepared list of reasons why he was recruiting me to join him as soon as I finished my residency. One, the junior member of the practice died three months after Phil joined it. Two, the one he was hired to replace was diagnosed with an early onset of Parkinson’s, and the guy hadn’t done surgery in four months. Phil had done every surgery since he moved north. In essence, he was the solo surgeon. He could continue for a while, but not forever. In spite of his crack about the weather, Phil and his wife loved the area, and she was pregnant, so they wanted to make a nest and line it.

  I told him Carol was vehement about staying in New York, and he said that he understood, but, hey, just go talk it over with her anyway. I was his first choice. He gave me a week to decide.

  Seven hours later Carol came into the bedroom and flipped on the light. “You didn’t sleep all day, did you?” she asked.

  I grabbed her waist, pulled her down on the bed with me, and kissed her with sincerity mixed with more than a moderate dose of lust. “I spent most of the day running along the reservoir and thinking. Phil Grey stopped by this morning.�
�

  “Phil? How is he? Wait, let me guess, he got sick of that sleepy little town already, and he’s in the city to look for a job.” She pulled away and walked to the closet. “Here,” she said, tossing me a pressed shirt. “Dinner with my parents tonight, remember?”

  I stayed put, watching her slip out of her skirt. “Come to bed and play.”

  She smiled and studied me. “So tempting,” she said. “The mayor will be there.”

  I rubbed my eyes and yawned. We’d met the mayor before. The first time I was a little starstruck. The second time I found myself disagreeing with him and called him on a couple of things, which hadn’t sat too well with Carol or her father. The mayor was a regular visitor at the Wentworths’, and although he had power and position, he wasn’t any more fascinating than some of my patients and their families. That Carol needed to be a courtier to power brokers annoyed the crap out of me.

  I rose and pulled on a pair of sweatpants. “I don’t want to go tonight. I want to talk about something.”

  “Is it important? We said we’d be there.”

  “How many guests are your parents hosting? A dozen? Two dozen? We won’t be missed.” I came up behind her so I could kiss her neck. She was sensitive there. “Listen, Phil offered me a position up in Portland, and I want to take it. I did a little checking. There are only a couple of pediatric surgeons in the area. You could—”

  “Matt, we’ve already been through this. I’m not moving to Maine.”

  “No discussion? You aren’t even willing to consider Portland? It’s a beautiful small city. It has an art museum—”

  “You cannot be serious. I’m a New Yorker. Beautiful? Sure, Maine is beautiful for a weekend, especially a weekend when we’re there to be tourists. But I don’t want to live there. We can visit; we can vacation, but I am not moving there to practice medicine.”

  “I want you to give this more than an unchecked dismissal this time. Anything you can get in New York, you can have there, too.”

  “I know you’re serious, but so am I. I love New York’s energy, its people, its diversity. Right outside your door. I don’t want to live in a small town. I can’t. The people are all so narrow-minded.”

  “I grew up in a small town. My family lives a small town.”

  She drew a deep breath and sat on the edge of the bed. “I didn’t mean to generalize. I didn’t mean your family. And I certainly didn’t mean you. Besides, you’ve been out in the world. And you’re brilliant, and rather easy on the eyes.” She could be elitist, and she was insulting people and places I cared about. She kissed me, and I pulled away.

  Her chin jutted out. “Please get dressed. I don’t want to be late for my parents’ party. After which, if you so desire, I’ll remind you of how indispensable I am to you.”

  Indispensable. The word echoed around my head. I thought about it. Who was indispensable to me? My family. Carol. Elle. Not necessarily in that order. Surely not Carol’s parents or this dinner with their wealthy socialite friends. Her parents were gracious and polite, but I’d never once felt any real warmth from them, not toward me. Maybe toward Carol. They were no doubt proud of her. She reflected well on them, and I would be a socially acceptable partner for her, a graduate of an Ivy League school, a neurosurgeon. I didn’t see us being chummy.

  “I’m going to skip it tonight,” I said. “Tell them I’m beat from work. Tell them I’m on call. Tell them anything you feel will save face, but if you aren’t even willing to consider going to Maine with me, I don’t think I can play your command performance.” I pulled on a shirt and a hoodie and marched out of her loft.

  Over the next few days Carol and I stopped talking. She wasn’t speaking to me because I’d stood her up. On the other hand, I had begun to wonder which I wanted more, her or the job in Maine.

  I called Elle and reached her machine. I called my brother Mike. He said I shouldn’t make any rash decisions. I called Phil and asked for more time.

  He gave me until the first of the year.

  Carol and I were going to Maine for Christmas. Actually I was going home. She was coming so we could go skiing. It would always be this way, I realized. Maine was a destination of interest, not of affection, for Carol. In New York, we would live her lifestyle and I would become accustomed to it—not that living her lifestyle would cause me any hardship.

  If I wanted to change things, I needed to do it soon. So, shortly after we arrived in Maine, I left Carol with Mom to do a little shopping in the local downtown boutiques, and I went into Phil’s office, met Welsh, who I liked immediately, talked seriously about the practice, and accepted their offer.

  I didn’t tell Carol. I decided to wait until we got back to New York. She had six months to get used to the idea. If she couldn’t, one of us would have to buckle. I’d have to stay in the city, or she’d come to Maine, or we’d have to call off the wedding.

  Far too much bickering followed, and a few months before the wedding, with a stack of save-the-date notices piled high, I stood in front of Carol, shaking my head. “If you’re not even willing to try it up there, then I don’t think you should mail those,” I said.

  Carol wrung her hands. “You’re picking a job in the middle of nowhere over me?”

  I cleared my throat. “It seems like you’ve made your own decision. You’re choosing New York over me.”

  She turned away and crossed her arms. “What do you want me to tell everyone?”

  I didn’t know if she was angry or shaken. And although I didn’t want to hurt her, we needed to break the tie before it became disastrous. “Irreconcilable differences,” I said. “We don’t want the same kind of life.”

  45

  Four Years Before the Accident

  The Galveston restaurant sported a tiki-hut motif, very tacky and very fun. Fortunately Hank, who was hosting the extravaganza, had reserved the patio for the Beaulieu and McClure clans to congregate. My brothers’ boys were causing generalized mayhem, darting around and drinking out of coconuts—correction, spilling out of coconuts—and causing too much hubbub to be in a public space. Meanwhile the adults gathered around an Olympic-pool-length table that overlooked the expansive beach.

  In the time leading up to Elle’s space flight, my entire family decided to attend the launch. Any excuse for a Florida vacation sounded wonderful in the dead of a Maine winter, but then Elle informed us she would be quarantined at the Johnson Space Center the week prior to her flight. It seemed that even the common cold would be bad news for an astronaut in orbit. “I’ll wave from the launch pad,” she said, “but the last time I’ll be able to see you in person will be before I go into quarantine.”

  After some discussion, Hank moved the good-luck-party venue to Texas. A few people balked that Houston didn’t sound nearly as fun as Florida until Hank suggested staying at the beach on the Gulf of Mexico. “A beach is a beach,” he said. “And we’ll all be ready for some sun by the end of April.”

  So only a few weeks after breaking up with Carol, I sat staring out over the Gulf. I hadn’t told anyone yet. It could wait until afterward. Elle deserved to have everyone’s focus on her, and frankly I didn’t want to field the how-are-you-doing-with-your-broken-heart questions.

  In the distance, oil rigs loomed on the horizon. The air was warm and sweet and calm in the way that lulls a man to sleep, and I was looking forward to seeing Elle.

  My brother Mike dropped into the chair next to mine and slapped me on the back so hard he almost knocked me out of my seat. “Okay, your wedding’s in what—four months? You want a stripper for your bachelor’s party? As your best man, I have to plan this thing and I need a little lead time since it’s in New York.”

  I coughed, suddenly realizing I’d have to let everyone know tomorrow morning so they didn’t make plans or, God forbid, buy wedding gifts. “No, ah, don’t worry about that tonight,” I said. This was Elle’s night, and thankfully, since Carol had never planned to attend the gathering, it seemed reasonable that I could dodge q
uestions about her for few more hours.

  At that moment my four-year-old nephew did it for me. He grabbed Mike’s shirt. “Dad, you gotta come see the bird.” The kids were all looking at a pelican about a dozen yards from the deck.

  “Guess I ought to go be a parent. Want to come?” Mike asked.

  “Sure,” I said. He swung his son up onto his shoulders, and we trudged over to the railing to get a better view.

  Fifteen minutes later Elle finally arrived, wearing a sleeveless blue-and-white sundress. She was glowing with excitement and grace, her lifelong dream days from realization. Elle laughed a little as she searched our faces. “Ya know I’m just going to work for a couple of days. It’s not that big a deal.”

  I nodded at her, and her eyes held mine. She half smiled as if we were sharing a secret with no one else around us. That’s how it had always been, the two of us alone although surrounded by our families.

  Toasts buzzed around the table, all in her honor, until it came to her brother, who had brought his girlfriend. Christopher stood and held up his goblet. “To my big sister, who has always been there for me. I want to ask you if you would do me one more huge favor.”

  Her eyes shifted back and forth. “Huge, huh? Well, maybe I’d better know what it is first. The last time you asked me for a huge favor, I ended up writing a term paper for you.”

  The group cackled. Christopher was bright, but he never shared Elle’s academic prowess. He glanced at his girlfriend, as if to apologize. “That wasn’t one of my prouder moments,” he said. “This is. Arianne and I are hoping you’ll be—and don’t take this wrong, Elle, but would you be my best man? Arianne and I are getting married.”

  Elle’s mouth fell open, and she jumped up and ran over to hug Christopher, and then pulled in Arianne, too. “Oh my God! Really?”

  Maybe it was sour grapes on my part, but I thought how very like Christopher this was. Elle waited her entire life for this moment. She put off school to take care of him when she was just a kid herself, and once more, Christopher selfishly turned the attention to himself.