Stoney Beck

by Jean Houghton-Beatty

  Filled now with self-hate, she sipped on ginger ale and considered the possibility, even hoped, that she would never be allowed anywhere near the dialysis unit again. A man in a white coat appeared in the cafeteria doorway and looked round the room. It was the same man who had hovered over Sarah while her dialysis was being set up. Jenny leaned on the table as she pulled herself to her feet and walked toward him.

  “Excuse me? Are you Sarah Fitzgerald’s doctor?”

  “One of them. I’m Mr. Sidney, the renal specialist.”

  “Mr.? I’m sorry. I thought you were my sister’s doctor.”

  The man was tall and angular, his pale skin stretched across his pinched face like tissue paper. Jenny could see his pulse beating in his temple. His dark wispy hair was straggly as if he’d cut it himself. It was below his ears and he looked more like a hippie, straight out of the sixties.

  “I am your sister’s surgeon,” he said in a stiff, superior voice as he straightened the papers on his clipboard. “In England, surgeons revert back to Mr.” He seemed to look Jenny up and down. “You’re an American aren’t you?”

  Jenny nodded.

  “But your twin sister’s English. How did that come about?”

  “Have you got a couple of hours,” she said, forcing a shaky smile.

  When he didn’t return the smile, she looked down at her shoes, for the first time noticing she had on one white tennis shoe while the other was beige. She looked up quickly but knew the man had seen.

  “I’m real sorry I crashed into that nurse. Is she all right?”

  “More or less. A slight bruise on her shoulder. An orderly swept up the pills.” He flipped a couple of pages on his clipboard. “If you really want to help Sarah, it’s important that you stay calm and focused.”

  Jenny ran a hand across her brow. “I know, I know. I’m working on it. Can you tell me what made her pass out like that? She was doing so great. She was singing and even fixed breakfast.”

  “It was her blood pressure,” Mr. Sidney said. “It shot up so fast, she lost consciousness. It happens sometimes.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “We’ll know more after she’s been assessed. If we can get her stabilized, she should be able to go home in a few days. We’ll make arrangements for her to have dialysis at a nearer hospital.” He turned to the next page. “Probably Craighead. If there’s a problem with transportation, it can be arranged for an ambulance to take her.”

  “I have a car,” Jenny said. “I’ll take her.”

  “Does she live with you?”

  “She didn’t used to but she does now. We’re sort of between houses.” Jenny put her hands on her burning face while the doctor scribbled away on his damn clipboard.

  “Do you have other family? Parents? Other siblings?”

  She shook her head. “There’re just the two of us.”

  “It’s quite a distance from here to the Lakes. Are you staying here in the city?”

  “I’m at The Astor.”

  “Good. Leave your phone number with the staff nurse. Someone will be in touch with you. We need to know more about Sarah’s background, her living accommodation. She’ll need a stable environment.”

  “Oh, she’ll get that. Everything sounds a bit up in the air, but we’re getting it all straightened out.”

  “So you have others helping you, people you can call on if need be?”

  She nodded. “We have dear, close friends in the village. I can give you names.”

  The doctor gave her a long penetrating look. “We’ll be in touch as soon as we’ve reached a decision on Sarah’s dialysis.”

  He stuck the pen in his pocket and looked at Jenny through narrowed eyes that said it all. What was going on here? What was all this confusion about where they lived? Didn’t they have a proper home? And no way would he trust this crazy American with such a sensitive procedure as assisting with dialysis.

  All Jenny wanted now was to get out of there. She despised this arrogant man and wondered how he’d feel if she said, “I’m trying real hard to get a handle on this, Mister Sidney, and by the way, your hair looks like shit.”

  Instead, she forced her mouth into some sort of smile, at the same time unable to stop the ache in her throat, or her eyes filling up. “Sarah isn’t strong to start with, what with her Down syndrome and all. And now this. It’s been uphill for her all the way. She’s so brave, though, much braver than I could ever be. I lost my cool in that dialysis room but I’m working real hard on doing better. The truth is if swimming the English Channel would make her well, I’d try it. I wanted to give her a kidney but our blood doesn’t match. Can you believe it, and us being twins?” She sniffed and felt in her pockets for a tissue.

  Mr. Sidney walked to the counter and came back with a couple of tissues. He handed them to her, along with three or four booklets he pulled out of his pocket. “Read through these,” he said, his tone suddenly less brusque. “They’ll give you more insight into dialysis. There’s information in there for those who know nothing about renal dysfunction. There’s also a support group I can put you in touch with, get you started, help you over the rough spots.”

  He looked at his watch and stuck his clipboard under his arm. “I have to get to a meeting, but we’ll be in touch.” Without another word he was off down the hall.

  Jenny stared after him as he marched away. What a stupid fool she must have seemed to him. Still, when he reached the end of the hall, he looked back and threw up his hand in a sort of wave before he disappeared round the corner.

  She stuck her hands in her pockets and kept her head down as she headed for Sarah’s room, at the same time trying to think if there was anything she’d forgotten to do. She called Alf and asked him if he would see to Pete and also to let Andy know that Sarah was in the dialysis section of the hospital. Alf told her that the priest, that Father Woodleigh from St. Mary’s had rung the garage. He had been ringing the house and got no answer. “I told him about Sarah,” Alf said. “Hope I did the right thing. Wasn’t sure after he sounded so concerned.”

  “No, no. It’s OK,” Jenny said. “I was going to call him anyway. He, well, he’s my and Sarah’s father. Thought you would have found out by now. Everybody else has.” She hung up before Alf had a chance to reply.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Charles had waited three days for his bishop to fit him into his schedule. He knocked now on the study door, at the same time thinking of Richard Delaney. Charles had never missed his old friend and bishop more than he did this minute. Richard had known all about Beverly and if he had been alive today, Charles knew he would have received a very sympathetic ear.

  Vincent Fitzpatrick swung round from the window as Charles entered. There was no smile of welcome as there would have been on Richard’s face, not even an outstretched hand. If this bishop ever smiled, Charles had never seen it. There was an air of self-importance about the man, while at the same time a certain guardedness. The chilly room matched his frigid air, and Charles wondered why the man hadn’t lit the gas logs in the hearth.

  “I realize you wanted to see me urgently,” he said as Charles approached. “This though is the first opportunity I’ve had.” He sat down on a maroon leather sofa, indicating with a wave of his hand that Charles should sit on the chair by the unlit fire.

  “Yes, I have been anxious to see you,” Charles said. “I’ve received some news that, as my bishop, you need to know.” He reached in his pocket for Jenny’s letter. “This is from my daughter. I’d like you to read it.”

  The bishop’s eyes were suddenly alert, attentive. “You have a daughter? I don’t understand.”

  “I didn’t know myself until just four days ago.” Charles held out the envelope. “Please, just read it. It’ll all come clear.”

  As the bishop unfolded the letter and began to read, Charles made a pretense of studying the painting on the wall over the mantelpiece. It was HMS Victory, Nelson’s flagship, in full sail, battling a stiff breeze. He tu
rned back to the bishop and watched his eyes move along the lines. His brows had come together in a frown, and every now and then, he glanced up at Charles. At last, he folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope.

  “Don’t you think you’re being a bit naive, taking all this on face value? How do you know this Jenny isn’t making this up, that it’s not some mischief on her part?”

  Charles felt a prick of irritation. “She isn’t lying. If you met her you’d know. And anyway, what would be the point? She’s making no demands on me and stands to gain nothing. It took courage for her to write this letter. She’s still grieving for her mother and the man she thought was her father.

  The bishop made no comment but leaned back in his chair, arms folded, waiting for Charles to continue.

  “Jenny came to England looking for answers to her mother’s suicide note, and almost as soon as she arrives, she discovers that Sarah who has Down Syndrome is her twin sister. Sarah is also very sick.”

  Charles ran a hand across his brow as his voice started to tremble. The last thing he wanted was to lose his cool in front of this man. He wanted to tell him instead how proud he was of Jenny and how already he cared so much for her and Sarah. But he didn’t trust himself to say it. He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair, as he saw again Sarah’s tortured face when she’d stood on tiptoe and stretched out her hand to give him the snapshot, then Jenny racing out to stand beside her, her arm reaching across her sister’s shoulders.

  “Tell me something about this Beverly,” the bishop said, his tone belittling her, making her sound cheap.

  Resisting the urge to tell his pompous bishop to go to hell, Charles bit his lip till it hurt. He took a couple of deep breaths and even though his voice trembled, managed to give the bishop a rundown of his short romance with Beverly, and how falling in love with her or any woman had been the last thing on his mind. Finally, he told the Bishop he’d asked Beverly to marry him, but she’d turned him down.

  Charles looked out the window, at the rain beginning to fall, thinking about the newspaper clipping he had found in his mother’s things. He had never told another living soul about this and probably never would. What good would it do? It was all so long ago.

  “You do understand your parish will have to be told,” his bishop finally said.

  Charles replaced the letter in his jacket pocket. “I’ve already done that. I realize I should have discussed it with you first but you were in Dublin, and not due here for three days. I decided to handle my parish first. I sent a letter to everyone on the roster.”

  “You’re right,” the bishop said. “You should have discussed it with me first. It’s put me in a very difficult position.”

  Charles wanted to ask what was this difficult position but changed his mind. He felt no shame for the love he had felt for Beverly and wasn’t going to let this man make him feel otherwise. All he wanted was to get out of the study as fast as possible.

  “I’m sorry if I haven’t handled this correctly,” he said. “And I realize that as my bishop, you have the right to fire me, send me to Timbuktu, Siberia, or God knows where. I leave it in your hands.”

  Vincent Fitzpatrick had deep-set dark eyes, slightly bloodshot, as though he drank too much. He looked like a man who had never been young, had never enjoyed a sunset or climbed a mountain just to see what was on the other side. What had happened in his life to make him so sour?

  “What would you propose?” the bishop asked. “That I allow you to stay on at St. Mary’s, with a couple of daughters in the next village? Do you think you could cope with a parish sniggering behind your back? Do you think the church could or should tolerate it?”

  Charles stuck two fingers under his clerical collar which had been digging into his neck ever since he’d entered the study. “I don’t know. In my letter I suggested they discuss it. I haven’t heard anything so far.”

  “You realize that most of them will feel let down,” the bishop said. “There are bound to be those who want to know the titillating bits, and then there are others who’ll want to see you drawn and quartered. You have to see this through their eyes. Suddenly their priest, their paragon of virtue, tells them he’s the father of grown-up twins. And not ordinary twins either.”

  “Not ordinary?”

  “Well, one’s English with Down’s syndrome and the other is an obviously healthy American. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t be intrigued if the pope sent us a letter saying he’s just found out he’s the father of twins from an old love affair. One of the twins is Russian and the other lives in Paris. The Russian twin came all the way from Vladivostok to tell the poor unsuspecting pope. Bound to raise a few eyebrows don’t you think?” There was a long pause while the bishop examined his nails and the silence whined around them. “For what it’s worth after all these years, I’m assuming you went to confession?”

  “I honestly don’t remember,” Charles said, “I took Beverly’s leaving hard. Nothing else seemed to matter.”

  The bishop’s eyebrows shot up another quarter inch. “Nothing else mattered? While you were having this affair, you were waiting to hear from the seminary. Surely the priesthood mattered?”

  “Of course it did,” Charles’s nervousness evaporated and he was unable to keep the edge from creeping into his own voice. “I’m not making excuses. What I did was wrong, I realize that. In the old days, it was thought priests were perfect, even those like me waiting to be priests. Now though, with the media the way it is, it’s common knowledge we’re not saints. We fumble our way through life just like everyone else.”

  The bishop acted as if Charles hadn’t said a word. “These twins, are they Catholic?”

  “Sarah is, but Jenny’s Protestant.”

  Vincent Fitzpatrick looked at his watch and got to his feet. “I have to give you fair warning here and now. I don’t look upon this favorably. You’ll be hearing from me.”

  “I understand,” Charles said, his hand outstretched. As they shook hands, and in spite of his bishop’s sharp words, Charles could have sworn he saw a wistful look in the man’s eyes. Had he imagined it or was the man envious?

  When he got back to his room, there was a message slipped under his door. Jenny had rung him from the Astor in Manchester, the note said, and would he please ring her as soon as possible. Within the half hour, and knowing his bishop had gone to Mass, Charles scribbled him a note and left it in a sealed envelope in his mailbox. Then lugging his suitcase, he headed out to his car.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  At the deli next door to the Astor, Jenny bought a smoked turkey on rye and a bottle of sparkly water, before walking to the hospital about a mile away. The priest had come three days ago to visit Sarah. He said he had made arrangements to stay at the rectory of St. Ann’s Catholic and would be back in touch with Jenny. But she hadn’t seen him since. When she asked him how his bishop as well as his parish had taken the news, he had skirted the question. Was this the reason he had not come back to see Sarah, or even called. She had looked in the phone book for St. Ann’s Catholic but never made the call. The priest knew where she was.

  Andy had come every day and yesterday afternoon had been accompanied by his uncle. Dr. Thorne said the Social Services had given Biddy an ultimatum. If she didn’t leave Glen Ellen voluntarily within the next two weeks, she would be issued a court order. She had become reclusive and refused to open the door to anyone, screaming at the Social Services through the door, that court order or no court order, the only way they would get her out was head first in her coffin.

  Jenny checked her watch as she entered the hospital grounds and made for the last of the benches spaced at intervals along the path. Fifteen minutes to go before she made that long, long walk through the labyrinth of halls to Sarah’s room. Jenny settled herself on the seat and pulled out the water and sandwich, for the first time thinking about money. She saw again her Uncle Tim, his face worried, anxious, telling her to stay in good safe places because she could afford it. That
was true then but how long could she keep it up? The doctors had hinted Sarah was making progress and could be sent home any day. Still, if she wasn’t discharged by tomorrow, perhaps Jenny should call the bed and breakfast Andy had recommended. Why shell out seventy quid a night, he had wanted to know, when Walter Pudsley’s sister ran a perfectly good bed and breakfast less than half a mile from the hospital?

  A couple of pigeons pecked around near Jenny’s feet, not once looking at her. They acted as if they hadn’t noticed she was eating, but were moving in closer just the same. She broke off a piece of her sandwich and tossed it to them, then looked toward the hospital entrance. She half rose from the bench at the sight of the now familiar figure striding toward her, his hand raised in a sort of wave. With the sun directly behind him, she shaded her eyes with her hand as he reached her.

  “Father,” she whispered feeling her face burn at the still strangeness of the name, at the way it could be taken two different ways.

  “Hello, Jenny,” he said, with that gentle smile, the mesh of fine lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes. She shoved her half-eaten sandwich back into the paper bag as he sat beside her. “How’s our girl?”

  “Being discharged soon, maybe even tomorrow. They’re fixing it so she can get dialysis at Craighead two or three times a week.” Jenny gave a half-smile, wishing she knew how to address him, how to ask him why he hadn’t gotten in touch. “I’ve been worried about you. I wondered if you’d heard from your parish and what your bishop said.”

  “Nothing much yet. Think I ought to warn you there’ll be some who expected a saint for a priest but instead just got me. Still, we’ll cross one bridge at a time. Our main concern is Sarah.”