“Je suis Madame Duras.” Deanna’s accent had never been worse, and she didn’t give a damn.
“Ah, bon. Madame is waiting in the salon.” How sweet. Pouring tea? Deanna felt her teeth grind as she marched behind the maid toward the living room. Nothing was unusual, nothing was out of place. No one would have believed that Madame Edouard Duras’s granddaughter lay, possibly dying, in a hospital two miles away. Everything appeared to be in perfect order, including Madame Duras, as the maid escorted Deanna into the room. Her mother-in-law was wearing dark green silk and an impeccable coiffure, her step was firm as she walked toward Deanna with an extended hand. Only her eyes betrayed her concern. She shook hands with Deanna and kissed her on both cheeks looking with dismay at the expression on her daughter-in-law’s face.
“You’ve just come?” Her eyes glanced immediate dismissal to the maid, who instantly fled.
“No. I’ve been with Pilar all evening. And I’ve yet to see the doctor.” Deanna pulled off her jacket and almost fell into a chair.
“You look very tired.” The older woman watched her with a face set in stone. Only the wily, old eyes suggested that someone did indeed live behind the granite of her face.
“Whether or not I’m tired is beside the point. Who the hell is this Kirschmann and where is he?”
“He is a surgeon and he is known all over France. He was with Pilar until late this afternoon, and he will see her again in a few hours. Deanna”— she hesitated, then said more gently—“there is simply nothing more he can do. At least not for the moment.”
“Why not?”
“Now we must wait. She must get her strength. She must … live.” Her expression showed pain at the word, and Deanna ran a hand across her eyes. “Would you like something to eat?”
Deanna shook her head. “Just a shower and a little rest. And” —she looked up with an expression of agony in her face— “I’m sorry to just march in like this. I haven’t said any of the appropriate things like ‘good to see you,’ ‘how are you,’ but Mamie, I’m sorry, I just can’t.”
“I understand.”
Did she? Deanna wondered. But what did it matter now if she did or not.
“I do think you should eat, my dear,” Madame Duras was saying. “You look very pale.”
She felt very pale too, but she simply wasn’t hungry. She couldn’t have eaten, no matter what. Not tonight. Not after seeing Pilar limp and broken in that bed, asking for Doggie, and too weak to hold her mother’s hand.
“I’ll just shower and change and get back. It’s liable to be a long night. By the way, have you heard from Marc?” Her brows knit as she asked. Her mother-in-law nodded.
“He’ll be here in an hour.”
An hour. … One hour. After more than two months, Deanna felt nothing inside except what she felt for Pilar.
“He’s coming in from Athens. He’s very upset.”
“As well he might be.” Deanna looked his mother straight in the eye. “He bought her the motorcycle. I begged him not to.”
Madame Duras instantly bridled. “Deanna, he cannot be blamed. I’m sure he feels quite badly enough.”
“I’m sure he does.” She looked away, then stood up. “He’ll be landing in an hour?”
“Yes. Will you go to meet him?”
Deanna started to say no, but something inside her wavered. She was thinking of Pilar, and how the child looked … how it would be for Marc walking in, as she had, and seeing her for the first time. It seemed cruel to let him walk into that alone. Pilar was his baby, his treasure, his child. She was also Deanna’s, but to Marc, Pilar was almost a goddess. She couldn’t let him face it as she had. She had to meet him at the plane.
“Do you have his flight number?” His mother nodded. “Then I’ll go. I’ll just wash my face. I won’t bother to change. Can you call a taxi?”
“Certainly.” The elder Madame Duras looked pleased. “I’ll be more than happy to. Fleurette will make a sandwich for you.” Fleurette, little flower. The name of the immensely rotund cook Madame Duras employed had always struck Deanna funny, but not tonight. Nothing was funny anymore. She nodded curtly at her mother-in-law and hurried down the hall. She was just about to turn into the guest room when she noticed the painting in a dark passage. Left there, unwanted, unloved, unadmired, forgotten. It was the portrait of herself and Pilar. Madame Duras had never been very fond of it. Now, without thinking further, Deanna decided that this time she’d take it home, where it belonged.
In the familiar guest room, she looked around. Everything was a polite shade of sandy beige, in damask or silk, and the furniture was all Louis XV. It was a room that had always seemed cold to Deanna, even when she had slept in it on her honeymoon with Marc. She ran a comb through her hair and tried to make herself think of Marc. What would it be like to see him again? To see his face, touch his hand … after Ben. Why was it that Ben seemed more real to her now, or was he only a dream? Had she once more been swallowed alive by this beige silk world, never to return? She wanted desperately to call Ben but she didn’t have time. She had to get to the airport in time to catch Marc as he left the gate from the plane, or she’d miss him entirely. She wondered if there were any way to leave a message that she was coming, but she knew from experience that such messages always went astray. A man with a thin, thready voice would stand in a corner of the airport whispering to himself, “Monsieur Duras … Monsieur Duras,” as Marc marched unknowingly by. And if he did get it, it might frighten him too badly about Pilar. She could at least spare him that.
The maid knocked on the guest-room door and told her the taxi was waiting. As she spoke the words, she handed Deanna a small package. Two ham sandwiches and part of a chicken. Perhaps Monsieur would be hungry too. Hungry? Jesus, who could eat?
Unlike the earlier ride from the airport which had seemed interminable, this one seemed much too short. She found herself nodding slowly off to sleep in the backseat as they raced along into the night, her thoughts jumping in disjointed confusion from Pilar to Ben to Marc. It seemed only moments later that the cab screeched to a halt.
“Voilà.”
She muttered an absentminded “merci” to the driver, paid the fare and a handsome tip, and hurried inside, smoothing her skirt again as she ran. She was beginning to feel as though she hadn’t changed her clothes in a week, but she didn’t really care how she looked, she had too many other things on her mind. She glanced at the big board that listed the flight numbers and the gates and started out at a run in the direction of the gate from which she knew he’d come. The flight had just landed. It would be only a minute or two before the passengers would deplane. She had just enough time to make it. First-class passengers always debarked first, and Marc always traveled first class.
She darted in and out between other travelers, almost stumbling over someone’s bags. But she reached the area just as the first passengers were coming through customs, and with a sigh backed off into a corner to watch. For a mad moment she wanted to surprise him, to show him that she cared, despite her betrayal of the summer. But even in this ghastly time of agony over Pilar, she wanted to hold out something to Marc, to make it easier for him. She would simply walk up beside him with a touch of the hand and a smile. She could still do that for him, she could give him a moment of pleasure in the midst of so much pain. She pulled her jacket closer around her and looked down at the cravat on her ivory silk shirt. Seven or eight people had already walked past her, but there was still no sign of Marc.
Then suddenly she saw him, tall and thin and narrow and neat, impeccably orderly and well tailored, even after the flight. She noticed with surprise that he looked less distraught than she had feared. Obviously, he did not yet understand how serious things were, or maybe.… And then, as she took a step from her hiding place, Deanna felt her heart stop.
He was turning, with a slow, soft smile, the smile that called her Diane and not Deanna. She saw him reach out and take a young woman’s hand. She was yawning sleepily, and he
let his hand drift to her shoulder as he pulled her close. The woman said something and patted his arm. Deanna watched them in speechless stupefaction, wondering who the girl was, but not even really caring. What she had seen was the missing piece in the puzzle, the answer to so many years of questions in her life. This was no casual acquaintance, no girl he had picked up on the flight. This was someone he was comfortable with, familiar with, someone he knew well. The way they walked and spoke and moved and shared told Deanna everything.
She stood riveted to the floor in the corner, with her hand raised in horror to her barely open mouth, and watched them walking away from her down the concourse until she could no longer see them. Then, her head down, running, seeing no one, and wanting desperately not to be seen, she ran toward the exit and hailed a cab.
16
Feeling panic-stricken and out of breath, Deanna gave the cab driver the address of the hospital. She lay her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears. All she wanted was to get away, to put as many miles between herself and the airport as she could. There was a momentary feeling of madness, of being swept along by a wave, of having walked into someone else’s bedroom and found him undressed, of having discovered what she had never been meant to see. But had she? Was it truly that? What if it was only a woman with whom he had shared the ride on the plane? What if her assumptions were crazy, her conclusions insane? No, there was more to it than that. She had known it the moment she had seen them. In her heart of hearts, she had simply known. But who was she? And how long had it been happening? A week? A month? A year? Was that what had happened this summer or was it something more? Much, much more …?
“Voilà, madame.” The driver turned to her with a backward glance at his meter. Deanna could barely hear. Her mind was running in fourteen directions at once. During the whole agonizing ride from the airport she hadn’t thought even once of Ben. It didn’t occur to her that she had done the same, all she knew was that she had seen her husband with another woman, and she still cared. Very much. She was blinded by the surprise and the pain.
“Madame?” The driver stared at her as she looked again at the meter, glassy-eyed, vague.
“Je m’excuse.” She quickly handed him the money and got out, looking around. She was back at the hospital, but how had she gotten there? When had she told him that address? She had planned to go back to the apartment to collect her wits, but instead she had come here. It was just as well. Marc would be going home to drop off his things and see his mother, and then would finally come to Pilar. Deanna had bought a little more time. She was not yet ready to see him. Every time she thought of him, standing there, she saw the pretty young head leaning close to his, her hand on his arm, their eyes linked as he slipped an arm around her shoulders. And she looked so damn young. Deanna’s eyes filled with tears as she pushed her way through the heavy glass doors and back into the hospital lobby. She took a deep breath. It already had a familiar smell. Without thinking, she felt her hand push the elevator button for the fourth floor. She had become a robot, an automated body without a mind: she could feel herself functioning, but she couldn’t understand it. All she could think of was that face, next to Marc’s. And he had looked so happy, so young….
“You’ll be all right?” Marc looked at her with tired eyes as he picked up his coat. Chantal was lying on the bed.
“I will be fine. You have enough to think about without worrying about me.” But she knew that he hated it when she was tired. The doctor had warned him after her brush with death that she mustn’t wear herself out. Ever since, Marc had been treating her like an overprotective papa with a delicate child. He wanted her to get lots of rest, eat well, and take care of herself so that the diabetes would never get out of hand and the dire possibilities the doctor had warned them of would never occur. “Will you be all right?” She held her arms out to him. She hated to see him go, hated to know how little she could do for him. But she knew that she couldn’t go to the hospital with him. Deanna would be there. It was one thing to insist upon being taken to Cap d’Antibes, to make a stand when everything was well, but it would have been madness for her to go with him now. This wasn’t the time. Chantal understood that. Her timing had always been excellent. “Will you call me and tell me how she is?” There was real concern in her eyes, and Marc was instantly grateful.
“As soon as I know anything. I promise. And darling. …” He sat down and held her close. “Thank you. I—I couldn’t have made the trip without you. This has been the most difficult night of my life.”
“She’ll be all right, Marc-Edouard. I promise you.” He held her very tightly. When he pulled away, he wiped his eyes and cleared his throat.
“J’espère.” I hope.
“Oui, oui. Je le sais.”
But how could she know it? How did she know? And what if she were wrong?
“I’ll be back later for my bag.”
“You’ll wake me if I’m asleep?” It was a kittenish smile that lurked in her eyes, and he laughed.
“On verra.” But he had already left her, his mind was somewhere else. They had only gotten in from the airport ten minutes before, but already he felt as though he had lingered too long. He slipped into his raincoat.
“Marc-Edouard!” He stopped and turned at the sound of her voice. He was already at the door.
“N’oublie pas que je t’aime.…” Don’t forget that I love you.
“Moi aussi!” The door closed soundlessly on his words.
He drove Chantal’s tiny Renault to the hospital and parked down the street. He should have taken a taxi, but he didn’t want to waste another moment. He wanted to be there. At her side. Seeing what had happened. Trying to understand. Coming back on the flight he had run it over and over and over in his mind. The why and the how and the when, none of it making any sense. There were moments when it seemed as though nothing had happened, as though they were just going back to Paris as always after his business meetings in Greece … and then suddenly it would all come crystal clear again and he would remember Pilar. He would never have been able to keep himself together on the flight back had it not been for Chantal.
The lobby was quiet. Dominique had already given him Pilar’s room number when they spoke on the phone, and he himself had succeeded in getting through to Dr. Kirschmann before he left Athens. It had been too soon to know anything. The damage to her skull was considerable, to her legs perhaps permanent; her spleen had been ruptured, one kidney bruised. She was, all in all, a very sick girl.
Marc felt his chest go tight as he entered the elevator and pressed four. His mind was a blank as the elevator ascended. Then, with a whir, the doors opened and he stepped out. He felt lost for a moment, powerless and afraid, as he glanced around him, wondering where to find his child. He saw the head nurse at the desk and somberly approached her.
“Pilar Duras?” The nurse began to give him directions to the room. He held up a hand. “D’abord, how is she?”
“Critical, monsieur.” The nurse’s eyes were grave.
“But any better than she has been?” In answer: only a shake of the head. “And Dr. Kirschmann? He’s here?”
“He was and he has left again. He’ll be back in a while. He’s keeping a very close watch on the situation. She is completely monitored. … We’re doing all that we can.”
This time Marc only nodded. He cleared his throat and dabbed at his eyes with his handkerchief as he marched purposefully down the hall. He had to pull himself together, show Pilar that everything would be all right, he would make her better, he would give her his strength. Chantal was forgotten, all that he had in his mind was his little girl.
The door was ajar, and he glanced inside. The room seemed to be filled with machines. There were two nurses, one in a sterile, green operating-room suit and the other in white. Their eyes searched his face. Soundlessly, he stepped inside.
“I am her father.” The whispered words had a ring of authority, and they
both nodded as his eyes swept the room. He instantly found her, dwarfed by the bed and the tubes and the monitors that jumped with precision at her every breath. For a moment he felt a chill seize him as he looked at her face. She was a very pale gray and she looked like no one he knew, until he stepped closer and recognized the distorted features of his child. The tubes and the pain and the bandages had almost totally changed her, but it was his Pilar. He watched her for a long moment as she lay there with her eyes closed, and on silent feet he came nearer and ever so delicately reached out and touched her hand. The hand stirred only slightly. She opened her eyes. But there was no smile, and only the faintest look of recognition.
“Pilar, ma chérie, c’est Papa.” He had to fight back tears. He said nothing more, he only stood there, staring at her, holding her hand, and watching until once again she closed the brilliant blue eyes. He felt as though all the air in the room had been sucked away, it was so difficult to think and see and breathe. How could this happen? How? And to his child? He felt his knees tremble, and for a moment he thought he would be sick, but he went on standing, watching, and touching the pale little hand. Even her nails were a strange mottled color, she was barely getting enough air. But he stood there, and he stood there, never moving, never speaking, only watching his child.
Silently, from her seat in the corner, Deanna watched him. She had said nothing when he entered the room, and he hadn’t seen her, concealed as she was by the mammoth machines.
It was almost twenty minutes later when at last he found the familiar face and those eyes … watching him with a look of despair. He looked surprised when he saw her, as though he didn’t understand. Why had she said nothing? Why did she just sit there? When had she come? Or was it simply that she was in shock? She looked ravaged, almost as pale as Pilar.
“Deanna. …” It was the merest whisper.
Her eyes never left his face. “Hello, Marc.”
He nodded and let his gaze drift back to Pilar. “When did you get here?”
Summer’s End Page 17