Light of the Desert

by Lucette Walters

  There was a pause at the end of the line. Finally, and after some hesitation, Yasmina said, “There is no need to put you, or myself, through such embarrassment, Zaffeera.”

  “Yes, but still, if you don’t mind, please, for the sake of tradition, Mother dear? Just in case they bother us about it.”

  CHAPTER 43

  FATE AND THE WRITTEN WORD

  Noora stared at the pale blue-gray wooden shutters that allowed horizontal rays of sunlight into her hotel room. She had turned off the air conditioner during the night, and now she felt hot. She glanced at the digital clock —5:43 AM. She glided out of bed and opened the shutters, seeing the waves gently lapping the shore. She felt revived by the ocean breeze and the gentle whiff of gardenias. She made a special prayer for Ian Cohen before rushing to get ready, for today, he would drive to the hospital and go ahead with the heart surgery. She hoped he didn’t change his mind. Most of all, she prayed nothing would go wrong.

  They had removed his false teeth. His eyes were barely open. She held his hand. “Stay with me,” he whispered as he was about to be wheeled to the operating room.

  She pecked a kiss on his cool cheek, assuring him she would stay as close as the nurses would let her. She doubted that would reassure him. “I won’t leave you. I promise,” she said.

  She sat alone in the waiting room, wishing she could talk to someone who knew something about “coronary artery bypass surgery” and about what to expect next. The nurse had given her pamphlets on the subject. “Everyone recovers from surgery at a different rate,” one of the booklets said. He may need three weeks to recover. She would have to move out of the hotel. They told her she could stay in the hospital, upstairs where they had rooms for families of patients. She would, at least, have a place. Most of all, she would have a purpose. The admired Hollywood producer needed her. Not for long, she reminded herself. Soon he should be well again, ready to return to his life. Soon he’ll realize he won’t need her anymore.

  Noora paced in the hallway. She wished she had a notebook or a small hardbound journal like the ones she spotted in the gift shop of the hotel. She made a mental note to check out the hospital gift shop, and dug in her purse—Annette’s purse—and pulled out a pen and a couple of letterheads she had taken from the hotel. She returned to the waiting room, where she would write down her thoughts and record Ian’s operation and recovery period, but now every chair was occupied and the television was on.

  She had four hours to kill. Four hours of worrying and wondering, while praying the doctors could repair his heart.

  The day before, Ian had told her he was sick of seeing her in the same beige blouse. He gave her two hundred-dollar bills and said, “Buy yourself something Hawaiian. Something colorful.” Perhaps she should go find something bright and cheerful to greet him when he got out of the operating room. What if something went wrong and he didn’t make it? She remembered the way the cardiologists looked at each other. They didn’t seem too happy about the results of that angiogram.

  Noora sat in the far corner of the cafeteria with a cup of hot cocoa before her. Writing is good for the soul, she thought, remembering Professor Pennington. She left her cocoa on the table and rushed to the gift shop. She didn’t care if someone took her cup or cleared the table—she had to find a journal or a notebook.

  Her bowl of cream of wheat became a glob of paste. The wall clock showed eleven thirty, more than four hours since she left Ian Cohen. Noora had lost track of time, writing in her new journal. It had cost twenty dollars, but she had to buy it. On the first pink pinstriped page of the cloth hardbound journal, using the hotel’s pencil, Noora wrote “Kelley Karlton” and the date. “This book begins with all my prayers for my father’s speedy and successful recovery.” She erased “my father’s” and wrote Ian Cohen’s name.

  “Kelley Cohen, please report to I.C.U. North,” a female voice came from a nearby speaker. Her heart skipped a beat. Leaving her food and thrusting her journal in her purse, she took the stairs two at a time to the third floor.

  Ian Cohen was hooked up to a maze of tubes. White tape held a large mouthpiece, and to his left, she saw a blue screen monitoring his heart. She couldn’t stand watching him in such a pitiful state. He looked small and helpless. When he opened his eyes, he did not seem to recognize her. She searched for a nurse, but they were all busy tending to other patients. So many patients were moaning. So much suffering. Noora had to walk out in the hallway. She pressed her forehead against the wall as tears flowed.

  “Are you Mr. Cohen’s daughter?”

  Noora turned. “I’m sorry,” she said, drying her tears. She stared at the young Asian nurse, who spoke with a melodious accent.

  “He’s doing well. The operation was successful. Are you the only family member present?”

  “Yes …” What else could she say?

  “Are you Mr. Cohen’s daughter?” the nurse asked again.

  “Yes,” Noora had to give a satisfactory answer. “My name is Kelley.”

  “Miss Kelley?” the nurse asked, extending her hand.

  “Yes,” Noora said, shaking the nurse’s hand.

  “Pleasure; my name is Felo. Doris, the social worker will be in shortly. She can answer any questions you have.”

  “Thank you,” Noora said. Watching the nurse return to her station, Noora thought that she should place a call to Sam the butler. She knew Mr. Cohen phoned him the night before and briefed him on his bypass surgery. Sam wanted to hop on the first plane for Honolulu, but Ian said it was best to keep the routine the same, and let everyone think he was on vacation.

  The social worker sat Noora down and explained what was to be expected. “Mr. Cohen will probably stay in the hospital for seven days. Of course, every patient is different,” she added. “Then he can be moved to rehab.”

  Noora’s tears flowed. She couldn’t stop herself. She wondered why she felt such anguish.

  The next morning, Noora checked out of the Moana Surfrider. The night before the operation, she had not been able to convince Ian that Roz should be informed about his surgery. “You tell one person at the studio, and the world will know. I won’t tell her, and lay off my case about it, or you can go back to Frogsville, for all I care,” he had said.

  Noora tried not to take his remark personally. He had every reason to be nervous about his surgery. But that morning in the hospital, after he was weighed and given a sedative, he said, “I did call Roz last night. Work things out with her.”

  What did he mean by that? Noora wondered.

  “Day two since the operation,” Noora wrote in her journal. “Ian Cohen is still not responding to painkillers. He was angry about the tubes and tried to pull them out. I cannot say I blame him. The nurses had to tie him to the bed, like a madman.”

  Finally, on the third day, Ian, still in ICU, began to show progress.

  Noora’s tension eased. She was grateful there was a vacant little room upstairs that she could rent as a family member. Only days before, she had worried about Mr. Cohen making a pass at her. Now she wondered if he would survive. She thought of Michel, and she closed her eyes. With a tear falling from her nose to her pillowcase, she dozed off.

  The next morning, Saturday, Roz landed in Honolulu. She brought his mail, along with trade papers and three or four screenplays to read—and approve—in a separate suitcase. But when his secretary approached Mr. Cohen’s bed, on the ICU floor, Noora could see the woman was shocked. “Oh my God. He looks so … helpless … old … What have they done to him?”

  “Actually, he’s much better,” Noora whispered cheerfully. “This morning, they removed his mouthpiece.”

  “Mouthpiece?”

  “He had to have oxygen. But now he’s breathing on his own. They even put back his denture plate. It’s major progress.”

  “Dentures?” Roz asked, appearing horrified.

  Ian Cohen had been rather glum and unresponsive in Kelley Karlton’s presence. But later that day, when Roz approached his bed, he
recognized her and smiled. But it was a short-lived smile that quickly switched to reproach.

  “What’re you doing on the set? You got letters for me to sign? Why all these extras?”

  “Oh my God,” Roz whispered, her eyes widening. “What have they done to you, Mr. Cohen?”

  Over caesar salads at the restaurant across the street from Straub Hospital, Roz kept shaking her head. “I don’t know what to think. I’m very concerned about Mr. Cohen.”

  “Yes, of course,” Noora said.

  “I had no idea …”

  “But his operation went well,” Noora said, trying to sound encouraging. “You heard the nurse. He just needs time to recover.” She liked Roz—her honesty and intelligence. She wore her graying hair up in a neatly combed chignon. Her granny glasses were held by a string of oyster-shell pearls. Her clear complexion revealed that she was probably younger than she appeared.

  “I’m also concerned about the fact that he won’t get to read the script, let alone dictate changes.”

  “What script?”

  “The violent piece of junk called The Lord of Doom.”

  “Oh. Yes.”

  “Don’t tell me he made you read it,” Roz asked, chewing on her lettuce.

  “He suggested that I read it … Didn’t you?”

  “Just because I work for Mr. Cohen’s studio doesn’t mean I have to read such crap.”

  “That’s what sells … I hear.”

  “Yes, and who am I to complain? Puts bread on my table. But frankly, and this is between you, me, and the wall, I don’t know how I’m going to explain this whole thing to the writers,” Roz said, drinking down half her glass of white wine. “No one will believe Ian Cohen is too busy to make script changes because he’s vacationing in Hawaii with some bimb …” She bit her lip. “I’m sorry … I … I shouldn’t have had so much wine,” she said, picking up her glass of water. “But people like to gossip. They always imagine the worst.”

  “Mr. Cohen has been very respectful. I do believe you and I have this in common. We’re probably the only women close to him who aren’t … well … romantically involved with him,” Noora said, to make sure Roz understood her message.

  Before flying home, Roz told Noora they would have to put her on the payroll. Noora did not argue. She would need money. In Ian’s wallet, Roz had found almost two thousand dollars, which she told Noora to use for expenses during his recovery. When Noora refused to take the money, Roz took one of the studio’s letterheads from her attaché case, and in her own handwriting, she confirmed permission for Mr. Cohen’s “personal assistant” to spend the exact sum of $1,882 on expenses and incidentals during Mr. Cohen’s stay in Honolulu, as per his request. She signed it and drew a line next to it.

  “Get Mr. Cohen to sign right here. For now. When I get back to the office, I’ll type it up and fax it to you, so it’s all legal and no one will accuse you of stealing his money,” Roz said. “Oh, and by the way, I like you; I appreciate your honesty.”

  “Day 5: Ian Cohen is still in the ICU …” Noora wrote in her little journal.

  After a wakeful night, and still shivering from the air conditioning in her little room, Noora was still in her dress and Annette’s sweater. She decided to hurry back down to ICU and check on Mr. Cohen before she took her shower.

  She found him sitting upright on a high-back vinyl reclining chair. He appeared to be in a trance. His hair was combed and he had been shaved. He had his teeth in. “Ah, it’s you,” he said. His voice sounded raw, like the Godfather’s.

  “Mr. Coh—” Noora stopped herself, remembering she was supposed to be his daughter. “How are you feeling this morning?”

  “All these people running around. Where’s Roz?”

  “She … had to go back to the office.”

  He grunted. “Tell craft services if they don’t shape up, they’ll have to be replaced.”

  “Craft services?”

  “Food’s lousy. How’d they expect anyone to function?”

  “You’re in the hospital. And you’ve just had a very successful operation.”

  “I know. Nice dress. Yellow’s good. No tacky muumuu Hawaiian shit.”

  “Thank you …”

  “It’s time for your blood pressure, Poppa!” a nurse sang cheerfully.

  “When will the doctor be in to see him?” Noora asked.

  “He already came to examine your father.”

  “I was hoping to be here when …”

  “The doctor said tomorrow Poppa is ready to be moved to a hospital room. Right, Poppa? You heard what the doctor said. Good news, huh?” she said, bending to Ian’s eye level.

  “About time,” he grumbled.

  On the sixth day after Ian Cohen’s operation, Noora received a call from Roz.

  “Did you get the script we sent overnight express?”

  “Yes.”

  Obviously, Roz did not understand that her boss was still in no condition to read or sign anything. Returning to his room, Noora saw a male nurse tending to Mr. Cohen.

  “Are you his daughter?”

  “Yes,” Noora sighed, wishing they’d stop asking her that question. But she was getting used to the lie.

  Mr. Cohen was asleep, and his breathing sounded ragged and labored.

  “He had a rough night,” the male nurse explained.

  “What does that mean?” Noora asked. “What happened?”

  The nurse shrugged.

  “Why didn’t anyone call me? I have a room upstairs.”

  “He’s resting now. We put a foam mattress for his back, and we gave him a sleeping pill,” the nurse said and left to tend to his next patient.

  At ten o’clock the next morning, Ian Cohen was still asleep. Noora had to get up several times and adjust the air conditioner for his comfort. At times, he shivered; other times, he perspired profusely.

  “How is he supposed to get any sleep in this hospital? The constant interruptions by nurses checking on Mr. Cohen’s blood pressure and IV bag can’t possibly help his recovery,” Noora wrote in her journal.

  Writing helped her pass the long, frustrating hours. The waiting, the worrying. She should complain to someone—Ian Cohen was not getting the proper care. She went to the nurses’ station and asked, “Where is Mr. Cohen’s … my father’s doctor? I must speak to him. He has been avoiding me long enough. I must speak to that doctor right now!”

  The nurse looked up from her computer screen. Her eyes were glazed over. She stared at Noora for a moment. “Whose daughter are you again?”

  “Mr. Ian Cohen. He had bypass surgery, and Dr. McGratten is his physician.”

  “Oh yes. I will leave him a message …”

  At eleven o’clock, a nurse came to Mr. Cohen’s door. “There is a phone call for you, Miss Cohen.”

  “Is it the doctor?” Noora asked hopefully.

  “No, long distance. You can pick up the phone at the nurses’ station.”

  “How is he?” Roz asked the moment Noora picked up the receiver.

  “He’s had a restless night …”

  “Get Mr. Cohen to give a response on the script. By the way, I express-mailed some more paperwork for you to sign.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. As of today, you’re officially hired. We’ll just need you to fill out the employment application I sent you. Do you have a green card?”

  “No.”

  “We’ll put you in as a temp.”

  Noora felt the blood drain to her feet. What if they found out she was a phony with someone else’s passport? She looked up and spotted Mr. Cohen’s doctor.

  “Put your passport number if you don’t have a social security number yet,” Roz continued. “The form I’m faxing is self-explanatory.”

  Passport number? Why would she ask me for such a thing, Noora wondered. “Excuse me, Roz, the doctor just arrived. I’ll let you know what he says.”

  “What?”

  “The doctor is here; I must speak to him before he dis
appears again.”

  “Okay, but make sure Mr. Cohen makes those changes, and …”

  “Yes, yes, sorry, g’bye,” she said and hung up. Noora was not going to miss that doctor again.

  “The doctor is pleased with your progress, Mr. Cohen,” Noora sang out when he finally awoke in the early afternoon. She wanted to add, He is also quite pleased with himself!

  The doctor’s visit had been rather unpleasant—he had treated Noora with a patronizing air.

  “Roz is waiting for you to approve these changes,” Noora said later, trying to appear cheerful. She placed a document on Mr. Cohen’s portable tray.

  “Nurses think you’re my daughter,” Ian said, coughing.

  “Here, Mr. Cohen, hug the pillow,” she suggested as Ian coughed louder. She gave him the flowered cotton pillow shaped like a baby whale.

  “I’d rather hug the teddy bear … one you got for me. Looks like me. Don’t you think?” He said, coughing louder yet. “God, I hurt …”

  She found the teddy bear on the chair and gave it to him.

  “They think you’re my daughter,” he repeated.

  “I’m sorry. I … didn’t know what else to tell them …” Noora said, embarrassed.

  He waved a hand attached to intravenous tubes. “Tell ‘em you’re my wife,” he said, laughing now while coughing.

  “Mr. Cohen …”

  Keeping the teddy bear snugly against his chest, he said, “Okay. Tell ‘em you’re my assistant.”

  “I tried …”

  “… and my daughter. My assistant and my daughter. We’re a team,” he said, coughing louder.

  When his cough began to abate, she handed him a small paper cup filled with juice. He sipped slowly through a straw, turning to Noora with droopy eyes. “As long as they don’t think you’re my granddaughter.”

  “Oh, no, no, Ian. You are way too young!”

  Closing his eyes, he dropped back on the pillow with a deep sigh.

  “Roz called and said they’ll need some script changes and your approval …”