The second small bundle appeared as lifeless as the first. Once the placenta had been expelled, Joyce released Laura’s wrists and lowered her legs. Ed Barrone stepped over to check on the babies. Not a sound had been heard from either.
“Hey, Ed,” Bill Kelly murmured, “why no heads-up on this? Lord knows we weren’t prepared for two.”
“None of us were. We couldn’t do a proper exam for fear of catastrophic hemorrhage. If I can avoid it I don’t expose a fetus to radiation, especially given her history of two full-term uncomplicated deliveries.”
Bill Kelly looked down at the flaccid neonates. “At least you were able to hold off delivery a few days,” he said softly. “That’ll give them an edge.”
“But enough?” Ed gestured toward the neonatal team as they pumped measured aliquots of oxygen through the small airways inserted into the motionless forms.
David intersected Ed as he walked back to Laura’s side. “Whether or not these babies will ever take a breath is doubtful, isn’t it?”
“We’ve got them intubated and on ventilators, but … David, I’m just remembering the unusual family history. The father, an identical twin. The paternal grandmother, an identical twin. I can’t tell for sure right now, but these babies seem identical. I should have suspected it.”
“Come on, Ed. Identical twins are a chance occurrence. It’s fraternal twins that have a hereditary tendency.”
“Still, if only I had access to that new ultrasound technology.”
“We’ll be one of the first centers, Ed,” David called as he moved closer to the bevy of activity surrounding the babies.
“Well, you certainly surprised us, my dear. None of us expected twins.” Ed Barrone smiled weakly at Laura. “But they’re very premature,” he cautioned. “They’ll be going to neonatal intensive care.” That’s all he said before walking back over toward the babies.
Laura tried to pull herself into a sitting position but could not. She managed to turn her head toward the urgent activity in the corner.
“Now, now,” Mrs. Myers warned, suddenly at her side. “There’s plenty of time for that. This is the time for you to rest.”
David hurried back to Laura’s side. He bent over and gently stroked back the strands of hair that had fallen over her pale, perspiring face.
“Laura,” he whispered. “You have twin girls. They’re very small, but they look just like you and Steve. Do you understand?”
She gasped. “Oh, thank God. Can I see them?”
“Not now. Your husband is waiting for you right outside,” David said, squeezing her hand, not knowing what else to say.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
After the birth of Laura’s twins, David felt dejected and empty. At first he hadn’t even gone home, claiming a series of surgical emergencies, throwing himself into a frenzy of activity, anything to keep his mind occupied. Yes, he was relieved that there hadn’t been a need to buffer the situation with Steve and that Laura’s secret was safe and would remain so with him. Yes, he was enormously thankful that Laura would be okay and that her tiny babies were now breathing on their own. But the painful truth — the Nelsons were a family. There was no place for him in Laura’s life.
When Compton’s Motor City Trauma aired accolades poured in, as did donations to the foundation that David had established in honor of Ed Collins. But rather than savoring success, David began to sink deeper and deeper into melancholy. He was unable to sleep, had no appetite, and no sense of pleasure whatsoever. Just an overwhelming feeling of hopelessness, even worthlessness.
“Tough it out,” he mumbled, oblivious to nature’s optimism in the perfumed air of an unseasonably warm April day as he approached his estate.
“Well, well, look who’s decided to come home,” Cynthia lashed out as she met David at the door. She wore a black silk sheath with a bold oriental sash of red and gold. Her raven hair was brushed back into a dramatic swirl. For a moment he panicked. Had he promised to escort her to some function or another?
“Hello, Cynthia,” David said, taking off his jacket. “Going out?”
“Yes. Ponroy’s. Dinner with Ruth since you are no longer gracious enough to let me know when to expect you.” Cynthia paused to scrutinize him. “If you do want to join us, I think you’d better shower and change. You look, well, like hell.”
Breathing a sigh of relief, David kicked off his shoes and leaned back against the sofa. It was true. He did look unkempt. Hair too long. Nails unfiled. Clothes wrinkled. “I am beyond bushed,” he said. “Too beat to go out. I’ll just fix myself something and go to bed.” Turning to head upstairs, he remembered something he’d been meaning to ask Cynthia, “Oh, one thing. Ed Barrone mentioned something.”
The sound of the doorbell interrupted.
Without waiting for it to be opened, someone came sailing in. “Cynthia, I’m here,” Ruth’s clear buoyant voice rang out. Her hair was longer and combed straight down in a trendy cut. “Oh, I’m sorry, David. I didn’t realize you were home. Glad to see you.” Ruth walked over and gave him a perfunctory peck on the cheek as he stood to greet her. “Am I interrupting anything?” she asked.
“Nothing important. I was just going upstairs. Don’t let me interfere with your dinner plans, ladies.”
Ruth arched an eyebrow at Cynthia. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” Cynthia said quickly. “Let’s go.”
By April, Snake’s mural was half done. With Willie’s help he had constructed a scaffold out of trash cans and old flooring from the hangout on Theodore Street that enabled him to paint even higher up the wall. Once Lonnie got out of the hospital he helped Snake transport and mix the paints. People passing would stop and look at the colorful pastiche that sprawled across the abandoned building, and Snake reveled in the attention. A local black paper, the Inner City Voice, The Voice of Revolution, had just come by and taken pictures and printed them on the front page. Snake was ready to burst with pride when that happened. The ICV was more than just a paper, it was backed by serious political activists dedicated to making life better in Detroit. The more attention there was, the sooner Snake would be free, really free.
Whenever he had some extra money, which was not often, Snake would dress smartly and make his way out to Baker’s Keyboard Lounge on Eight Mile and Livernois. It was one of the oldest clubs in the city, offering the smoky blues and hot jazz that Johnny had loved. As he swayed along to the beat, Snake missed Johnny even more. Anthony had his books; Johnny had his music; Snake had his painting. Invariably Stacy would float into his reverie. With the brothers both gone, he’d tried to protect the Jones girls, but then Lucy had Stacy dragged off to that nun school. At first she hated it; but now, to Snake’s growing despair, she was more and more excited about going back. All she talked about was her best friend Monica Williams. Monica was black, but very rich and even knew Diana Ross. Both those girls should have more black pride now that Dr. Martin Luther King got gunned down. The next time he saw Stacy he’d tell her that.
In honor of Stacy, Snake had painted a blind pig into the painting. Back during Prohibition days the illegal bars charged admission to anyone willing to pay to see a blind pig perform. Only a few bars actually had a pig in a cage on the bar, and they were soon replaced with dancing girls. Snake painted a black pig and put it behind bars. He painted it beside his image of Diana Ross, somebody he knew Stacy loved. The feelings he had for Stacy made him feel trapped, like he was in a cage. He couldn’t wait to tell her he landed a job on the assembly line at one of the Ford plants. It was a miserable job and only part-time, but she would be proud. But not as proud as she’d be when she saw his mural. That’s when he’d tell her how he felt about her.
In early May, a young, radiant group of eight sat around a lavishly appointed table at the Grosse Pointe Yacht Club. A fresh bouquet of peach colored roses dominated the table, surrounded by candles nestled in gleaming silver, casting a warm, inviting glow.
“I’d like to propose a toast to our four g
uests of honor, the most beautiful and the most successful women ever to grace the halls of University Medical School,” the male host of the party announced.
“Here, here,” the other three men joined him.
“Thank you,” beamed Rosie. She looked lovely in a red satin dress, her short dark hair feathered to frame her pixie face. “Girls, let’s drink to that. We deserve it after the hell we’ve been though,” she said, flashing her perky smile at Raymond Walson, their host.
Rosie had invited Tim Robinson, her on-again, off-again, boyfriend who had just finished his third year at the med school. An unpredictable couple, deserving of one another: she flirted outrageously; he ogled every female in sight. Over the last six months they’d broken up and made up so many times that the girls had lost count.
For Susan, this was her first public appearance with Will Cunningham. Glancing around furtively at first, Will eventually settled down and kept one arm slung casually around Susan’s chair throughout the meal.
“Oh, this champagne is wonderful.” Laura smiled and looked relaxed as she held up the fluted crystal for inspection. The decor, the ambiance, and the champagne made her feel like a celebrity.
“I guess you deserve this little celebration more than anyone else does, Laura,” Vicky said, striking as usual in an elegant emerald green suit of raw silk. Her hair arranged in a French twist, she could have walked right off the cover of Vogue. “Perfectly adorable twins ready to come home from the hospital, and great grades. What could be better?”
“We’ll let you know once we get the babies home,” said Steve, his tone far more serious than the others. “So far, we’ve had to buy a house and hire a live-in baby-sitter. Good thing the hospital’s covering the medical bills.”
“We did buy a new house. Five bedrooms. Enough room for our live-in. Up in Highland Park, on Puritan.”
“I have no idea how you manage,” Vicky said, leaning forward to confide. “Someday Raymond and I would like to have children. Right, darling?”
“Someday,” Raymond said with a wink.
“Wow, owning your own house already,” Rosie sighed. “I can’t even imagine. Lucky you can afford it.”
“Well, we got it for an outrageous price. It’s in one of those socalled changing neighborhoods. Still we couldn’t have done it without Steve’s promotion and all my loans. It’s really a pity,” Laura reflected, “what the real estate business is doing to Detroit with those racial scare tactics. I’m afraid it will get worse now that Martin Luther King was killed.”
“What do you mean?” asked Vicky quickly glancing at Susan. The three white girls had often remarked on Susan’s reticence when it came to the topic of race.
“Pure and simple exploitation. Rumors are planted about blacks moving into the neighborhood, followed by orchestrated vandalism. Bigoted whites start selling. The first wave of blacks pay full price. More vandalism. Landslide selling. Property values plummet. Everybody loses. Except the greedy real estate industry. And the process marches on, block by block.”
Susan nodded. “Hey, at least it worked for you,” she said with a tone of finality as she reached for Will’s hand.
A waiter came by to refill champagne flutes, and Will stood ceremoniously to raise his. “Let’s toast to the guy who brought us all together, dear old Harry.”
“Hopefully, properly buried by now,” Vicky raised her glass.
“Too bad the school doesn’t have some kind of service,” Susan said, “like a memorial, that we could all attend.”
“Just remind me never to donate my body,” Vicky said before glancing at Raymond’s strangely contorted face.
“Okay, ladies, give Steve and Raymond a break,” Tim nodded toward a very pale Steve. “Enough cadaver talk. Oh, oh, look who’s over there.”
Vicky tilted her head in the direction of the corner. “With his super bitch wife,” she added. “I’m not sure whether to stare her down or ignore her.”
“Ignore her, honey,” said Raymond. “Remember, three more years to go before graduation.”
David and Cynthia were being seated at a romantic table for two, the only table in the lavish dining room featuring two dozen long stemmed red roses. Cynthia looked stunning in a long silver gown, her hair swept dramatically to one side and secured with a jeweled clasp.
Will withdrew his arm from Susan’s shoulder and sat upright in his chair. “Well, Susie, looks like this’ll be our coming out party.”
“Geez, I’ve never seen Mrs. Monroe in person before,” Susan whispered. “She really is beautiful.”
“That may be so, but Vicky’s right,” Raymond said. “She’s a witch. We had one hell of a run in with her on Christmas Eve.”
“We heard,” said Susan with a smirk. Then she leaned in toward Will, “I wonder if Dr. Monroe will stop by and say hello.”
“I hope not.” Will replaced his arm around Susan.
“I’m with Will,” Rosie chimed in. “Dr. Monroe makes me nervous enough at the hospital.”
“I must say he looks a little down,” said Vicky, turning slightly to keep the Monroes in view. “Sort of out-of-it. Probably just exhausted. I heard an ER nurse say that he’s often at the hospital round the clock.”
“Before we leave, I’m going to say hello to him,” Steve said with determination. “I can tell you he was by Laura’s side night and day when she was in City Hospital.”
All three of Laura’s classmates exchanged knowing glances. They’d all discussed their experiences when attempting to visit Laura in the hospital, where Dr. Monroe had practically stood guard at her door. They’d all agreed that he must have felt personally responsible for what happened to Laura in the ER, but they also wondered if there was something more lurking there.
Laura, for her part, gave no secrets away as she sat silently, a deep flush crossing her neck and face. She gripped her napkin, suddenly absorbed with the menu selections.
Assorted appetizers preceded Caesar salads for all, followed by sensational entrees and elaborate desserts. The atmosphere became festive, the banter light, and the mood relaxed. Only Laura felt on edge. The company was wonderful, and it was the first time since moving to Detroit that she and Steve had been out socially with friends. Next week Natalie and Nicole would be discharged, and she’d be home with them and Mikey and Kevin for summer break. So why did she suddenly feel so apprehensive?
After dessert and coffee, Steve abruptly said, “Thank you, Raymond, for a wonderful evening. We should really be getting home.” To Laura, he said, “Let’s go over and say good night to Dr. Monroe.”
Laura flushed again. “Maybe we shouldn’t bother him.”
“It would be rude to ignore him. After all he did for us, we owe him that,” Steve responded, standing.
Laura rose slowly and followed Steve across the room to the intimate table.
“Dr. Monroe,” Steve said, “Steve Nelson. I just wanted to thank you for everything you did at the hospital. The babies are doing just fine.”
Laura tried to smile at Cynthia. Neither she nor David said a word, or even looked at each other. David rose politely and reflexively extended his hand to Steve. David had last seen him unshaven and distraught, so different from the blonde young man in the tapered navy suit. And Laura looking superb in a white pleated dress studded at the waist by a band of crocheted pink baby roses that cast an air of innocent charm.
“They’re each four and a half pounds now,” Steve continued. “Almost ready to come home. Good thing. Laura spends so much time with them in the hospital, the boys and I hardly ever see her.”
“I’m delighted,” David finally said. “Allow me to introduce you to my wife. Cynthia, this is Steve and Laura Nelson.” He deliberately avoided mentioning that Laura was a med student.
“Good evening,” Cynthia responded in a curt tone.
Much to Laura’s relief, Steve said, “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Monroe. We just wanted to express our gratitude to your husband.”
“Thank you, I app
reciate it,” David said. He shook both of their hands and sat back down.
Briefly, David and Laura’s eyes met, a fleeting yet intense gaze, an exchange captured by Cynthia.
After a few angry words, the Monroe’s left the club minutes later. Once more, David had been unable to clarify Dr. Barrone’s comments about Cynthia’s decision the obstetrician had spoken of the night of Laura’s horrendous accident. In the end, he figured that whatever it was Cynthia had decided she wanted, she would find a way to get it.
PART TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
AUGUST, 1969, FIFTEEN MONTHS LATER
Early Monday morning, August 18, David arrived at his office earlier than usual, but not earlier than Connie, who’d been there since the crack of dawn.
Traipsing to his desk, an uncharacteristic buoyancy in his step, “Top of the morning to you,” he called to her.
Connie looked up. Usually it was, “Connie, where’s my coffee?” She hadn’t even gotten around to brewing it yet.
“And to you, Dr. Monroe,” she called, a wide grin crinkling her face. I do think he’s going to be okay, she said to herself. “Your mail’s ready.”
Connie was adept at reading her boss’s moods, and she was confident now that he was out from behind that dark cloud of depression he’d suffered through last year. She’d never probed, but she was positive that he’d never seek psychiatric care, so she’d just helped him ride it out. Supporting him the best she could, covering for the meetings he’d missed, the lapses that she knew were part of his affliction.
Connie watched as he flipped though the stack of mail, smiling broadly as he extracted the third year medical class roster.
“So they’re starting back tomorrow,” Connie remarked. “The beat goes on.”
After a six-week vacation, the third year medical students would return to launch their clinical training. They’d be spending their days and nights on hospital rotations, away from the lecture hall and tedious labs. Nothing they had experienced so far could match the intensity that now lay ahead. Except for learning how to do a physical examination and their on-call weekend in the ER, all their training had been basic science classes.
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