In a deliberately casual tone, he asked, “You would?”
“Would what?” she said, already having forgotten what she’d just said. The drugs made it hard for her sometimes to follow the thread of a conversation.
“Do anything to… keep on going?”
She took a deep breath and looked out across the rink at the laughing, spinning skaters.
“I never thought I’d believe that,” she said. “I always thought-as much as anybody who’s healthy ever thinks about it at all-that I’d be happy to live my life, and go peacefully, with no complaints, whenever it ended.”
She coughed, and raised a gloved hand to her colorless thin lips.
“But that’s what you think when things are fine,” she said. “That’s what you think when there’s nothing really wrong. I don’t think like that anymore.”
A note of bitterness, one he seldom heard, had crept into her voice.
“Now, I’d give anything I could-and do whatever it takes-to live. To get old and gray with Gary. To see Emme play in the all-city orchestra, and go to her high-school prom, then off to college. To find out who she falls in love with, and what she decides to do with her life. To see her become a young woman, and have children of her own. I want all of that, David, all of it,” she said, tears welling up in the corners of her eyes. “I never thought I could want anything so much. And I’m so ashamed to be so weak and angry now.”
“You have no reason to be ashamed of anything,” David said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and hugging her tight. “You’re the bravest person I know, and you’ve got a right to be angry. You’ve been through hell.” Mrs. Van Owen’s offer-“I can promise she’ll live to a ripe old age”-rang in his head like a cracked bell.
The tears were rolling down both cheeks, and one or two of the passing skaters threw a glance their way.
“Don’t let Emme see me like this,” she murmured into his coat.
“Don’t worry. She’s way over by the concession stand with Amanda,” he assured her.
“I just needed to say it.”
“You can say anything to me, you know that. You always have.”
She sniffled a little and smiled at that.
“Remember how you told me,” he said, “back when I was in junior high, that no girl would ever go out with me if I didn’t get rid of my dandruff? Or that I was such a bad dancer, I should just sort of stand in place and shuffle my feet around?”
“I told you that?” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be-you were right. I bought shampoo, and I learned how to dance.”
She wiped her eyes on the back of her mittens and straightened up. “I wonder if this is how Mom felt, right about now?”
It was something that David had considered, too. Had their mother, who perished in the same way, felt this same anguish and frustration and-yes-fury toward the end?
“Maybe so,” David said.
Sarah just nodded.
Emme was skating toward them very carefully, with a big cardboard cup of hot chocolate in her hand.
“Watch it or you’ll spill that,” David said, getting up and giving her a hand. Emme looked at her mother, knowing something was up, as she plopped down on the other side of the bench and began to take her own skates off.
“I see you got the whole enchilada,” David said to distract her. “Whipped cream and marshmallows on top. What happened to the cherry?”
“Is everything okay?” Emme asked her mother, pulling on her boots.
“Fine, honey. Everything’s fine. But did Amanda pay for that? I’ll go give her mother the money.”
“No,” Emme said, reclaiming the hot chocolate. “A friend of Uncle David’s bought one for both of us. He said it was his treat.”
Sarah glanced at David, just as a puzzled look crossed David’s face. “A friend of mine? What was his name?”
“I don’t remember. But he had a funny way of talking.”
“Is he still here? Point him out, Emme,” he said, in a cautiously neutral tone. “I’d really like to go and say hi.”
Emme took a big swig of the chocolate while her eyes scanned the rink, then the street beyond.
“That’s him,” she said, pointing out toward the street, where a stocky man with a bald head was just then unlocking the door of a black BMW.
“Do you know him?” Sarah asked nervously.
But the look on his face told her no.
“I’ll be right back,” David said, taking off around the edge of the rink.
“David, just call the police if you have to! Don’t do anything that could get you hurt.”
But David was already hearing nothing but the pounding in his own eardrums. Who was the guy, closing the car door? If he’d really been some friend, he’d have come over to say hello. But he was starting to look vaguely familiar. Why?
“Hey!” he shouted, rounding one end of the rink, with his arm raised and waving. “Hey, you!”
He had to scramble through the line of kids waiting at the concession stand before he actually got out of the park.
The BMW had pulled away from the curb, and David, marooned on the wrong side of the street, had to wait for a bus to rumble by. By the time it did, the car was moving toward him, and David skidded out into the slushy thoroughfare, waving his arms and calling out for the car to stop.
All he could see of the driver, hunkered down behind the tinted windows, was a shaved head, tilted inquisitively to one side, as if the guy was amused at playing a game of chicken.
“Stop!” David shouted, holding up his hands, though instead of slowing down, or even swerving, the car kept coming right at him. “Stop the car!”
If anything, the guy sped up, blasting his horn. Somebody at the bus stop shrieked, and David, his feet slipping on the icy pavement, had to leap out of the way at the last second, landing in a snowbank piled up at the curb. He plunged into the snow up to his elbows, but by the time he was able to turn around again, the black car had zoomed by, horn still blaring, and was turning at the next corner. There was no time to make out any of the numbers on the license plate, or much else.
A passerby suddenly leaned over the snowdrift, extending a hand and saying, “That was a close call! What the hell were you doing in the middle of the street?”
David took his hand and pulled himself over the snow and onto the sidewalk.
“You hurt?” the man asked.
“No, I’m okay,” David said, dusting the snow and ice off his pants and coat. Several people were standing in the park on the other side of the street, and some of the skaters had stopped dead to watch the drama unfold.
“It’s all over,” David called out. “End of show.”
But it wasn’t. Above the noise of the passing traffic, and the scratchy sounds of “White Christmas” from the concession stand, David heard Emme’s voice, screaming his name.
The ambulance arrived within minutes, and after hugging Emme and assuring her that her mother was going to be all right, David sent her home with Amanda and her mom. The paramedics said he could ride in the back.
Sarah was going in and out of consciousness, and from the best David had been able to gather, she had run after him in a panic, lost her footing on the ice, and smacked her head on the sidewalk. He hovered above her, holding one hand while the medic monitored her vital signs.
“Anything else I should know about her condition?” the medic asked, glancing up at David.
“She’s being treated for cancer,” David said, and the medic immediately nodded, confirming his suspicions. It was hard to look at her and not guess it.
“Which hospital?”
“Evanston.”
“Good. That’s where we were going, anyway.”
As soon as they got there, Sarah was rushed through the emergency entrance, and David made a quick call to her husband’s cell phone. When Gary picked up, he said he’d already heard from Amanda’s mom and was on his way from a real-estate conference in Skokie. When
he arrived, the paper name tag was still stuck to the lapel of his sport coat.
Fortunately, her oncologist, Dr. Ross, was on call, and he joined them near the nursing station, with a grave expression on his face.
“This certainly hasn’t helped,” he said, “but we do have her stabilized again. She’s conscious, and she doesn’t appear to have suffered a concussion. But we’ll keep her in the ICU overnight, just for observation.”
“And then?” Gary asked.
“Then,” he said, with a slightly more hopeful expression, “I’d like to enter her on a new experimental regimen. We’ve just gotten the go-ahead on it, and I think Sarah might be a very good candidate. The clinical trials in Maryland were impressive.”
For a minute or two, he explained how the therapy might work, and what its side effects might be, then concluded by saying, “But as it is experimental, there may be some trouble getting it by your insurance company.”
Gary didn’t hesitate. “I’ll handle it.”
“And I can help,” David blurted out, thinking of the business card in his wallet.
“That’s fine,” Dr. Ross said with a nod. “And I’ll do what I can from my end. But I just wanted to warn you.” And then he left them there, to continue his rounds.
“Why don’t we adjourn to the cafeteria?” David said. “I could use a cup of coffee.”
Lost in thought, they sat staring into their respective cups. A crooked Christmas tree, decorated with ornaments made by the pediatric patients, stood forlornly beneath the ticking wall clock.
David didn’t have to guess what was going through Gary’s mind. Apart from the life-and-death question that was forever hanging in the air, there were the money worries. Whether the insurance plan picked up most of this experimental protocol or not, Gary was looking at financial disaster. His business, David knew, had been way down-Sarah had once confessed that he was thinking of quitting and trying something else entirely-and there was no way he could cover any further demands without, at the very least, selling his own house.
But what couldn’t a million dollars do?
David would have to go to Florence. And he’d have to go now, while Sarah had been granted this temporary reprieve. There was always a chance that the new protocol would work… and there was always a chance that it wouldn’t. If he was ever going to take this chance, now was the time.
“You know that promotion I mentioned that I might be getting?” he ventured, and Gary nodded, without lifting his eyes.
“Well, to nail it down, I might have to go to Italy.”
“When?”
“As soon as possible.”
Now Gary raised his weary eyes. “For how long?”
“It’s hard to say,” David replied, “though I could come back, on a moment’s notice, anytime I had to.”
He could see Gary processing the information, just another complication in his already tumultuous life. “I just hate leaving you in the lurch like this, but-”
“Go,” Gary said kindly, “go. There’s no reason all of us have to live in this damn hospital. And if Sarah were sitting here, she’d be saying the same thing. You know that.”
There, David knew, he was right. It only made sense for him to leave immediately especially as he had begun to entertain-against his own better judgment-the nagging, and utterly irrational, notion that Mrs. Van Owen’s claims weren’t as impossible as they seemed. For one thing, he was beginning to believe that someone else took them seriously. Why else had he nearly been run down in the street? He glanced down at his knuckles, scraped raw from plunging into the snow and ice. Determined as Mrs. Van Owen was, was there some rival out there, equally determined to thwart her?
And for another-and this was the part that troubled him even more deeply-right after she had driven away from the Newberry, he had returned to the book silo and, slumping in his seat, turned the next leaf of The Key to Life Eternal. A sketch, one that he had barely paid attention to on his first reading, jumped out at him like an acrobat.
It was clearly an early rendering of the figure of Athena, destined for one of the panels making up the base of the great statue of Perseus. And the likeness to Kathryn Van Owen was startling-the imperious gaze, the haughty posture, the rich mane of dark hair. The words, Quo Vincas / Clypeum Do Tibi / Casta Sosor, were faintly legible below it; “I, thy chaste sister, give thee the shield with which thou wilt conquer.” Athena was the goddess who had provided the advice, and shield, that allowed the hero Perseus to slay the Medusa. And though David recognized that the woman who had just left the library could not possibly have been the artist’s model-that this had to be a mere coincidence, maybe even a trick of his own imagining-there was another part of him that said, Believe it. Because at this point, a belief in miracles, in the long-lost secret of immortality, might be his sister’s best-and only-hope. How could he dismiss it?
Chapter 10
Father DiGennaro yawned widely and checked his watch again. It was almost midnight, and after that he could lock the massive bronze doors of the Holy Name Cathedral-seat of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Chicago-and go to bed. The younger priests would still be celebrating Christmas Eve, with spiked eggnog and pizzas, but all Father DiGennaro wanted was a shot of Maalox and a good night’s sleep. At seventy-three, he’d ushered in more than enough holidays.
And the one piece of pizza he’d had was already giving him heartburn.
The archbishop liked to keep the cathedral open late on Christmas Eve, as it was a time when some parishioners came in to quietly reaffirm their faith. And perhaps a dozen or so people had already done that. But Father DiGennaro was alone now, and the interior of the vast Gothic church echoed with his footsteps as he made the rounds. Built in 1874 to replace the previous cathedral, destroyed in the Chicago fire of 1871, Holy Name was large enough to seat two thousand worshippers at one time, and it was richly decorated with red Rocco Alicante marble and a massive granite altarpiece, weighing six tons. The wall sconces and votive candles lent a warm glow to the lower regions of the interior, but the ceiling, 150 feet high, was barely visible. Some work was being done up there, and plywood sheets and tarps were stretched across a portion of the apse. But the red hats of the previous Chicago cardinals-Meyer, Bernardin, Mundelein, Cody, and Stritch-were still hanging, as tradition dictated, until they were reduced to dust… a reminder to all that earthly glory is passing.
Father DiGennaro burped, holding his closed hand to his lips, and shuffled slowly toward the double doors, decorated, like the rest of the church, with motifs meant to suggest the biblical “Tree of Life.” He was fishing in his trouser pocket for the key ring, when he saw, to his surprise-and if the truth be told, to his chagrin-the doors opening, and a slender woman, in a veiled hat and long fur coat, entering the glass-enclosed vestibule.
Oh, Lord, he thought, please let her just light a candle and be gone. The corns on his feet were killing him, too.
But once inside, she stood, as if a stranger, looking all around and hesitant to enter any farther. He had the sense that she was coming to some decision, which did not bode well for him. People in the throes of a spiritual crisis seldom found quick release or comfort.
Approaching her slowly enough not to startle her, he said, “Merry Christmas… and welcome to Holy Name.”
As he emerged from the shadows of the nave, she took off her gloves, crossed herself, and with a sudden determination, said, “I’m sorry to trouble you at this hour, but I wish to make my confession. Can you do that for me?”
This was going to be worse than he thought. “I was just about to lock up,” he replied, slowly, hoping she would take the hint and come back the next day, but she didn’t move from the spot. He quickly sensed something else about this woman, too-that she was used to getting what she wanted, when she wanted it.
He let the key ring drop back to the bottom of his pocket.
“Where would we go?” she said, looking around nervously.
The old priest gestured t
oward several carved wooden booths, with thick red curtains, that stood between banks of flickering candles.
The woman strode off, her heels clicking on the floor, as if she were eager to get this thing over with, and Father DiGennaro wearily followed. Parting the curtains of a booth, she disappeared inside, and he went into the other side, settling into the cushioned chair and folding his cold hands in his lap. Why, he thought, hadn’t he just cheated by five minutes and locked the doors early? Right now, he could be taking his shoes off and rubbing the life back into his sore feet.
The woman was kneeling on the other side of the screen, her veil removed-he certainly didn’t see many of those anymore-and from what he could tell, a cascade of black hair had washed down onto the shoulders of her fur collar. Her face was lowered as she mumbled, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit… My last confession was… a long time ago.”
A lapsed Catholic, he thought. He could be here all night. And then he chided himself for his uncharitable attitude. This is what he was here for, what he’d been doing for well on fifty years. He recited several brief verses from Romans-“For with the heart man believeth unto righteousness; and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation”-as this sometimes seemed to help the penitents unburden themselves, then he waited.
But there was silence… except for the very distant sound of some revelers caroling on State Street. He stifled another burp.
“What would you like to tell me?” he finally prompted, and it was then he gathered that the woman was so distraught that she had been silently crying. He saw her lift a handkerchief to her eyes, and he caught the scent of perfume wafting off the fabric.
“I have sinned,” she said, before stopping again.
“So have we all,” he said, consolingly.
“In a way that no one has sinned before.”
He’d even heard that before, too. “I doubt you have broken new ground,” he said, hoping to ease her strain with a tiny touch of levity. “Why don’t you just tell me what’s troubling you and we’ll see what’s to be done?”
The Medusa Amulet Page 10