“I see,” Peter says, vexed at once by her response. He waits, but she says nothing more. “You’re sure of that? Would you like to go and check?”
“I think she’s asleep,” Caroline repeats flatly.
“Well, I’d like to talk to her when she wakes up,” Peter says. “Would you have her call me?”
“I’ll tell her,” says Caroline, not promising.
“What time do you think that will be?”
“I have no idea,” says Caroline.
Peter says nothing. He is determined not to have a fight with Caroline. “Well, please ask her to call as soon as she wakes up. It’s important. How’s she feeling?”
“She’s not up yet,” repeats Caroline. “I don’t know.”
“Thanks,” says Peter, and hangs up.
He picks up his mug. His hand, holding the thick pottery, is trembling. He looks at his fingers, concentrating, to stop the tremor. He can’t. He sets down the mug and spreads his fingers in the air, the palm down. Damn you, Caroline.
Above the deep fustian red of his blotter floats his hand. The thickened fingers fan tautly outward. The hand itself is broad, coarse. The skin is folded and wrinkled. Dark veins trace a knotty delta of soft ridges beneath the skin. Sparse hair, pale and shining, like dune grass, drifts across the back of his hand. From the wrist upward, the hand trembles, in a steady quiver. He can’t stop it.
Peter opens his briefcase. His jaw aches, and deliberately he unclenches his teeth. He will not go on like this. He will not put up with Emma’s coldness, he will not permit her to turn against his daughter. He will not tolerate certain things. Never again, she said, and meant it. He has married a woman with a cold heart.
He takes another swallow of the bitter coffee. He feels that his life is starting to fly apart. He feels the air around him is being fractured; invisibly, constantly. Shards of his life are hurtling outward. There is something that he needs to do, some action he must take.
He sees Tess’s face again, again he’s washed with disbelief. He goes back to that night. He remembers the first moment of wakefulness, lying in bed, startled, listening, uncomprehending. He had not yet known: he could weep, now, for his own blissful ignorance, that moment, before the dreadful one of understanding. The mad circling red glare of the light on the police car. The weighty hovering of the helicopter. The stretcher being lifted up into its dark belly. The doors closing over it. The tennis clinic, he thinks. Christ. His own anger. His own anger. He puts his head into his hands, covering his face.
During the day, Peter usually calls Emma often. This morning he does not, working determinedly through the hours. Each time he thinks of Emma he sees her tightened mouth, the little tense twin peaks made by her lips when she is angry. Never again, she had said. She had meant it, but she is not the only one to make decisions.
Halfway through the morning, John Norman, another partner, appears. Tall, diffident, red haired, Norman stands in the doorway.
“Do you have any time today?” he asks. “I’m going to have to argue this case in front of a jury, and I’d like to discuss it with you, when you have a chance.”
“Right now,” Peter says, pushing his chair back from his desk. “Have a seat.”
He’s glad for a diversion, glad to have a physical presence to talk to. In his shirtsleeves and suspenders, Peter leans back in his chair, listening, watching Norman’s long intelligent face. Norman sits down in a green leather chair and crosses his legs. He is pale skinned, with pinkish eyes and a rosy, rubbery lower lip. He has never presented a case to a jury. Jury cases have only recently become common in patent law, and Peter has more experience in them than many of his partners.
“I’ll tell you how I would see it,” Peter says. “I’d make it clear to the jury that there’s a question about whether or not the government should properly have issued a patent. That’s where I’d start.”
In the middle of Peter’s explanation the telephone rings.
“Excuse me,” he says. Emma, he thinks, and picks it up while it is still ringing.
“Hello?” he says, eager.
“Dad?” Amanda’s voice is remote.
“Hi, sweetie,” he says, uncomfortable. “Can I call you back in a little while? I’m in a meeting right now.”
“I’m just leaving,” Amanda says. “I’ll be back this afternoon. Mom’s taking me out to brunch.”
“No, wait a minute, I need to talk to you,” Peter says. “How can you be about to go out if you just got up?”
“I got up a while ago.”
“Didn’t your mother ask you to call me as soon as you woke up?”
There is a pause.
“She told me to call,” Amanda says carefully.
“Well, I asked her to tell you to call as soon as you got up. So please don’t go out,” Peter says, his temper rising. “I need to talk to you before you go.”
“Dad, we’re leaving right now,” Amanda says. “I’ll talk to you later.”
Peter stands up at his desk. “Amanda, I’ve just asked you not to leave,” he says. “I need to talk to you.”
“But we have to go now,” Amanda says, sounding anxious. “Mom has an appointment afterwards.”
Norman rises tactfully and catches Peter’s eye. He waves and mouthes, “I’ll be back.” He leaves the office, closing the door quietly behind him.
Peter sits down. “All right, let’s talk now.” He waits until the door is shut. “Amanda, I want you to come with me and visit Tess in the hospital.”
There is a silence.
“No,” Amanda says.
Instantly Peter stands up again. “Don’t tell me no, Amanda,” he says. He feels his chest swelling, anger pumping it up. “I know you don’t want to go, but you have a responsibility here.” He speaks loudly, he knows it is too loud, but he can’t help it. He was unprepared for the call, distracted by Norman’s presence, unsettled by Amanda threatening to go out. Angry at Caroline for sabotaging him.
“I don’t want to go,” Amanda says.
“I’m sure you don’t,” Peter says. “But you have a moral obligation, Amanda. I want you to go there.”
“Dad,” Amanda says, “I don’t want to go.”
“I don’t care if you don’t want to go!” Peter says, loud again. “I want you to go there! Do you hear me?”
Amanda says nothing.
“Amanda?”
She does not answer.
“Amanda,” Peter says. He is now furious: she is directly disobeying him. “I want you to go. You put her there, you go there! Do you understand what you’ve done? You can’t walk away from this. You are involved.” Don’t say it’s your fault, he tells himself. Don’t say it.
There is silence, then the muffled sounds of movement.
“Peter?” It is Caroline. “What on earth are you saying to Amanda?”
“I want her to come with me to the hospital to see Tess.”
“That is out of the question,” Caroline says firmly. “She’s not going to. She’s still in shock. She can’t go trailing all over New York.”
“But she can go trailing out for brunch,” says Peter. “She’s well enough to do that.”
“That’s right,” Caroline says.
“Caroline, this is serious,” Peter says. “Amanda can’t pretend this doesn’t exist. What she has done is terrible. Do you understand that? It may be irreparable.”
Hearing himself say the word, Peter feels his throat thicken: irreparable. His eyes sting. He feels things sliding, worse, out of control. What if this were true?
“Amanda has to come in and be part of this,” he says. “This is a part of her life. It’s part of my life. I want her present, I want her to understand what has happened, I want her to see it. She’s part of it. She can’t simply walk away. And I forbid you to encourage it.”
“You can’t forbid me to do anything. You have no control over me whatsoever,” says Caroline. “Amanda is my daughter and she’s in my custody. She is not going to t
he hospital with you; that’s a sick, morbid idea. You want to punish her for something that was an accident, something she never meant to do. You want to torment her and bully her, and I won’t let you.”
Peter turns to look out the window. The building across the street is covered with a skin of mirrored glass, which reflects his own building. The other building itself is weirdly invisible in the landscape, the blue sky behind it matching the blue sky in its reflections. Staring out, Peter is staring disconcertingly in at himself. His own window lies somewhere in that mirrored grid, reflected back at him, as his own rage is reflected back at him by Caroline.
He takes a deep breath and begins, talking calmly. He has prepared for this. “Caroline, if you cross me in this,” he says carefully, “I will sue you for custody. I will show in court that, under your care, Amanda has been consistently smoking marijuana, which is an illegal drug. I will recount to the court the tragedy that has resulted because of her habits. I will prove you to be absent, a poor moral influence, and an unfit parent.”
There is a long pause.
“I promise you I will do this,” Peter says, and means it.
There is another pause.
“You despicable shit,” Caroline says.
There is silence.
“Put Amanda on the phone,” Peter says, keeping victory out of his voice. There is another pause, more telephone handling.
“Hello?” Amanda says miserably.
“I’m going to come and pick you up this afternoon at four,” Peter says. “We’re going up to the hospital.”
“Dad,” Amanda begins.
“Here is why I want you to go,” Peter says. “I want you to think about someone else besides yourself. I want you think of Tess, and of Emma.” His voice breaks on the last word. “This is something that’s happened, and we all have to go through it together. I know you didn’t mean to do it, but you’re a part of it. You can’t walk away, Amanda. You can’t walk away.” Here he feels his chest fill again, and he cannot go on.
There is a long pause.
When Amanda answers, her voice is small and dismal. “Okay.”
“Tell your mother,” Peter says, and hangs up.
He looks at his watch: only twelve-fifteen. Christ. He’s exhausted, wrung out. Done for the day. He feels like going home, but there is nothing for him at home. And there is nothing for him at the hospital but Emma’s hostile silence. There is nothing for him anywhere, nowhere he can go for relief. There is no relief.
At exactly four o’clock Peter pushes Caroline’s buzzer. The door opens almost at once.
“She’s ready,” Caroline says viciously.
Amanda is waiting: she looks awful. There are big dark circles under her eyes, and her skin is pale and unhealthy. The dreadful green streak in her hair is now showing dark roots. She is wearing a wrinkled T-shirt and a blue-jean skirt. On her feet are heavy black sandals. He loves her.
“Let’s go,” he says.
“Bye, Mom,” Amanda says forlornly.
Caroline stands in the doorway, her arms folded. “Bye, Amanda,” she says. She looks at Peter. “I will never forgive you for this.”
“You’ve never forgiven me for anything,” Peter says.
Caroline shuts the door, hard.
In the elevator Peter turns to Amanda. “I appreciate your coming, Amanda,” he says. “I know it’s hard for you.” He sounds cold and formal, he thinks unhappily, like a lawyer.
Amanda watches the elevator door. “Thanks,” she says.
They take a taxi up to the hospital. It is still hot, it has gotten hotter and hotter all day. Riding uptown to pick up Amanda, Peter started sweating again. The sun feels malevolent. Emma claims it’s the vanishing ozone layer, but she always says this as though it is his fault, so he always denies it. Anyway, it’s always hot in August. Still, the dead glare feels somehow ominous, he has to admit.
Their cab is old and cramped, without air-conditioning. Peter rolls the window down as they rattle up Park. The air feels gritty and used. He feels grubby. He still hasn’t spoken to Emma, not since last night. Never again. Never again. Amanda’s hand lies next to her on the dirty seat. Peter reaches over and takes it. It is moist and limp in his fingers. If you can hear me squeeze my hand. He feels his breath choke in his throat, fights it down. He carries Amanda’s hand to his mouth, and kisses the back of it: the skin is smooth, and unexpectedly sweet smelling. Faintly damp with sweat.
He smiles at Amanda. “Your hand smells nice.”
She looks startled, then gives him a small smile. “Thanks.”
Peter kisses the hand again and puts it back on the seat. They are going up Madison now: you have to overshoot the hospital by several blocks on Madison, then go west, across to Fifth and down. Coming south along the park on Fifth, they stop at the light at 100th Street. A Latino couple is walking on the pavement along the park wall. A short dark-haired woman in a loose T-shirt, tight skirt and high heels, pushes an empty stroller. She walks with wide casual strides. Beside her is a black-haired man, carrying a child on his shoulders. His arms are folded over the child’s legs, which hang down his chest. Latin men, thinks Peter, carry their kids around on the street. Italians do it, and Spaniards, South Americans. Not WASPS, not the English, not Germans: it was women who carried their babies. At least WASPS hadn’t before Snuglis and women’s lib, when men had started changing diapers. Peter’s father would never have carried him in public. To say nothing of Emma’s father, the old buzzard. He had probably made his poor wife walk one step behind him on the sidewalk.
The Hispanic woman looks up at the child and speaks. The child answers and leans over, wrapping his arms down around his father’s skull, cradling his father’s jaw. The father says something, his teeth bright in his dark face. The child rides trustfully above the crowd, safe from the perils of the lower regions. He rises and falls comfortably, with each step of his father’s. The child’s small heart, the very beating center of him, is pressed against his father’s head. Peter cannot take his eyes off the family, the three of them. They seem so happy.
The cab draws up at the entrance to the hospital, behind another cab. Peter takes his wallet from his breast pocket.
Amanda, looking out the window, says, “There are Emma’s parents.”
Peter looks up: he had forgotten they were coming. The Kirklands are slowly climbing the steps. They are moving uncertainly: how meek they look here, Peter thinks, surprised, touched. How frail they seem, timid, even, outside their own territory. Mr. Kirkland, in a wrinkled gray suit, looks thin and stooped. Mrs. Kirkland, in a droopy skirt, clings awkwardly to his arm. They are climbing the broad shallow steps diagonally, yawing uncertainly off course, as though set by an unknown tide.
Peter pays the cabdriver and he and Amanda start up the steps behind the Kirklands.
“Hello, Everett,” Peter says politely.
Everett Kirkland swivels belligerently to face him. “Oh, hello,” he says, frowning.
“Hello,” says Mrs. Kirkland anxiously. Neither of them looks at Amanda.
“You remember Amanda,” Peter says, putting his hand on Amanda’s arm and drawing her forward as they all mount the steps.
“Hello, Amanda,” Mrs. Kirkland says, smiling miserably.
“Hello,” says Amanda.
Mr. Kirkland stares at Amanda.
“Everett, this is my daughter, Amanda,” Peter says reprovingly, reminding him.
“Hello,” Mr. Kirkland says briefly, withdrawing his eyes.
They walk inside in silence.
“Over here,” Peter says, leading them to the elevators. Going up, the car is crowded and silent. On the seventh floor they get out, the Kirklands straggling uncertainly behind them.
“This way,” Peter says. He takes firm hold of Amanda’s hand, and marshals them down the hall to Tess’s room.
As Peter comes in the room he sees a white-coated shoulder. Beyond it is Emma’s pale face. She is talking to the doctor.
Pete
r pauses. There are too many of them to come in while the doctor is there. But Peter is already inside, and he wants to see the doctor himself. He doesn’t want Amanda to stay, but he doesn’t want to make her wait out in the hall with someone who won’t even speak her name.
Peter shoulders his way gently in, past the doctor. He sees Emma’s face lift, sees her eyes seek his miserably. Then she sees who is with him: Amanda. Her eyes deepen angrily, her mouth sets tightly.
“Hello, Doctor Baxter,” Peter says loudly. He hopes the Kirklands will realize that they should go and wait in the hall, but he doesn’t turn around to see.
“Hello,” says Doctor Baxter earnestly. He pushes his tortoiseshell glasses further up on his nose with his middle finger. The bald part of his skull is shiny.
“How are things going?” Peter asks. He wonders if Amanda is still right behind him. He can’t tell, and he doesn’t want to turn around, he feels he must keep his gaze on Emma and the doctor. He doesn’t know if he hopes Amanda is there or not. Does he want her to hear this? He’s not sure what he wants. Things are flying out of his control.
Doctor Baxter says, “I was telling your wife that I see some improvement in the pupillary response, today.”
“That’s good news,” says Peter, nodding, though he hardly knows what it means. Amanda has moved in next to him and is standing on one side of him. Facing him, on the other side of the doctor, standing across from him, is Emma. He can feel her, like a blast furnace, sending off waves of heat and fury. She is deliberately not looking at him or Amanda, she is staring fixedly at the doctor.
“Well,” says Doctor Baxter, raising one finger in a cautionary way. “It’s good, but it’s too soon to tell much. It’s still early days yet. Early days.”
Such a strange phrase, Peter thinks. It’s early days. Ungrammatical. How had it evolved? And what is the pupillary response? He knows he knows what it is. He cannot find it. “What is the pupillary response?” he asked.
“Each day I test your daughter’s pupils with a light,” says the doctor.
“Tess is not his daughter,” Emma says neutrally.
“I’m sorry. Your stepdaughter’s eyes,” says the doctor.
This Is My Daughter Page 45