“At five o’clock.”
“You’ve been here all night?”
“Yes.”
“Any change?”
There was silence. Marc looked at her again, the question repeated in his eyes.
“She seems to be a little worse. I went out for a little while, earlier … I had to … I went to your mother’s house to drop off my bag. I was only gone for about two hours, and … and when I came back, she seemed to be having a great deal of trouble breathing. Kirschmann was here then. He said that if she’s not better in a few hours, they’ll want to operate again.” She sighed and lowered her eyes. It was as though she had lost them both in those two hours. Pilar and Marc.
“I just got in.”
Liar. You didn’t. You got in two hours ago. Where did you go? But Deanna said nothing at all.
They stayed that way for almost an hour, until finally the nurse asked them to step outside, just for a few minutes; there were some dressings that had to be changed. Slowly Deanna stood up and left the room. Marc had hung back for a moment, reluctant to leave his child. Deanna’s mind wandered back to the scene at the airport. It was suddenly all so strange. She hadn’t seen him in two months, yet they had barely said hello. She couldn’t play the game of the happy reunion. Suddenly it was too late. But he wasn’t playing it either, or perhaps he was just too distraught over Pilar.
She wandered down the hall, solemnly, her head bowed, thinking of bits of prayers she had known as a child. She had no time now to waste on Marc; all her energies had to be spent on Pilar. She heard his steps just behind her, but she didn’t turn; she merely kept walking, foot after foot after foot, down the hall until she reached the end, and stood staring blankly out a window with only a view of a nearby wall. She could see him standing behind her as she gazed at the reflection in the glass.
“Deanna, can I help?” He sounded tired, subdued. She shook her head slowly. “I don’t know what to say.” His voice caught as he began to cry. “I was wrong to give her the … to….”
“It doesn’t matter now. You did it. It’s done. It could have happened in any of ten thousand ways. She had an accident, Marc. What difference does it make now whose fault the accident was, who gave her the motorcycle, who….” Deanna’s own voice was shaky.
“Mon Dieu.…” She watched him drop his face into his hands and then she saw him straighten and heard him take a deep breath. “My God, if only she’ll come out of it all right. What if she can’t walk?”
“Then we’ll teach her to live the best way she can. That’s what we owe her now. Our love, our help, our support, in whatever she has to face….” If only we get that chance. For the first time in almost twenty years, Deanna felt a hideous wave of terror. … What if?
Deanna felt his hands on her shoulders, then he turned her slowly around. His eyes were the eyes of Pilar, and his face was that of a very old, tired man.
“Will you ever forgive me?”
“For what?” Her voice was distant and cold.
“For this. For what I’ve done to our child. For not listening to you when I should have. For—”
“I came to pick you up at the airport tonight, Marc.”
Something in her eyes told him that she had died, and he felt something inside him freeze. “You must have just missed me.” But there was a question in his voice. He searched her face.
“No. I left. I… it explained a great deal to me, Marc. I should have known. A long time ago. But I didn’t.” She smiled a tiny smile, then shrugged. “I suppose I’ve been a fool. And may I congratulate you. She looks not only pretty, but young.” There was bitterness as well as sorrow in her voice.
“Deanna,” the hands on her shoulders tightened, “you’re coming to some very strange conclusions. I don’t think you understand.” But it all sounded lame. He was too tired and upset to come up with a worthwhile story. He felt his life coming down around his ears. “It was a nerve-racking flight, and this has been an incredible day, you know that yourself. The young lady and I began to talk and really—”
“Marc, stop. I don’t want to hear it.” She simply knew. That was all. And she didn’t want reassurances in the form of lies. “Please. Not tonight.”
“Deanna….” But he couldn’t go on. Another time he might have been able to, but not then. He simply couldn’t concoct an appropriate tale. “Please.” He turned away then; he couldn’t look at the pain in her eyes. “It really isn’t what you think.” But he hated himself for the words. It was what she thought, every bit of it. And now he felt traitorous, denying Chantal. Whichever way he turned, he was damned now. “It isn’t.”
“It is, Marc. It was as clear as day. Nothing you could tell me now would change that. Nothing would take away what I saw, what I felt, what I knew.” It had been like an arrow, straight to her heart. “You must have thought me very stupid for all these years.”
“What makes you think it has been years?” Dammit, how did she know?
“The way you moved together, the way you walked, the way she looked at you. It’s difficult to achieve that kind of ease in a very short time. You looked more married with her than you ever did with me.” But suddenly she wondered. Hadn’t she looked just as married with Ben? And in a very short time. Still, as she had ridden back from the airport that evening, she had known—the absences, the distance, the constant trips, the phone number in Paris that appeared too often on their bill, the few odd stories that had never quite fit. And tonight, the look in his eyes. If it hadn’t been that girl, it had been someone. For years. She was sure.
“What do you want me to say?” He faced her again.
“Nothing. There is nothing left to say.”
“Are you telling me it’s over? That you’d leave me because you saw me at the airport with a girl? But that’s insane. Deanna, you’re mad.”
“Am I? Are we so happy together? Do you enjoy my company, Marc? Do you long to come home when you’re away? Or is it that we have a deep and meaningful relationship, that we respect each other’s needs and virtues and feelings? Maybe it’s that we’re so blissfully happy with each other, after all these years—”
“Maybe it’s that I still love you.” As he said it, his eyes filled with tears, and she turned her head.
“It doesn’t matter if you do.” It was too late now. They had each gone their separate ways.
“What are you saying, Deanna?” He was suddenly gray.
“I’m not entirely sure. First let’s get through this with Pilar. After that we can talk about us.”
“We’ll make it. I know we will.” He looked at her with determination, and she felt fatigue wash over her like a wave of cement.
“What makes you think so? Why should we make it?”
“Because I want to.” But he didn’t sound totally sure.
“Really? Why? Because you like having a wife as well as a mistress? I can hardly blame you. That must be a very cozy arrangement. Where does she live, Marc? Over here? That must work out perfectly.” And that was why he hadn’t wanted her to join him on the trip to Greece.
“Deanna, stop it!” He reached out and grabbed her arm, but she pulled away.
“Leave me alone.” For the first time in her life, she hated him, what he was, what he did to her, and all that he didn’t understand, and for one painful, blinding moment she found herself longing for Ben. But was Marc really so bad? Was she any different, any better? Her mind was in a whirl. “I don’t want to discuss this with you tonight. We have enough on our minds. We can discuss it when Pilar is out of the woods.”
He nodded, relieved. He needed time. He had to think. He’d find the right words to say. He would set things right.
Almost at that instant the nurse beckoned to them both from down the hall, and their own problems were forgotten as they hurried toward her.
“Is there any change?” Marc was the first to ask.
“No. But she’s awake. And she’s asking for both of you. Why don’t you talk to her a little, bu
t be careful not to wear her out. She needs the little strength that she has.”
Deanna noticed a subtle change in Pilar as they entered the room. Her color was no better, but her eyes seemed more alive. They seemed to wander nervously from one face to another, looking for someone, searching, darting here and there.
“Hello, sweetheart. We’re right here. Papa’s here now too.” Deanna stood very close to her and ever so gently stroked her hand. When she closed her eyes, she could imagine that Pilar was still a very small child.
“That… feels … nice….” Pilar’s gaze drifted to her father and she tried to smile, but her breathing was labored and she closed her eyes from time to time. “Hi, Papa. … How … was … Greece?” She seemed much more aware of current events than she had been earlier, and suddenly she also seemed more restless. “I’m … thirsty….”
Deanna glanced at the nurse, who shook her head and made a sign with her finger: “No.”
“Water?”
“In a little while, sweetheart.” Deanna went on talking in a soothing voice while Marc stood near her, agonized. He seemed to have lost his power to speak, and Deanna could see from his full eyes and trembling lip that he was waging a constant battle with tears.
“Ça va?” At last he had spoken, and again Pilar tried to smile.
She nodded gently. “Ça va.” But how could anything be O.K. in the condition that she was in? Then, as though she understood what she was going through, she looked pointedly at him and fought to find the words. “I … was going … much too fast. … My fault, Papa … not yours….” She closed her eyes and squeezed Deanna’s hand. “I’m sorry.”
The tears now ran freely down Marc’s face. Quietly he turned away. Pilar’s eyes remained closed.
“Don’t worry, darling. It doesn’t matter whose fault. But your mother was right.” He glanced at Deanna.
“Mommy…?” Her voice seemed to be growing weaker.
“Shh. Don’t talk.…”
“Remember the little playhouse I used to have … in the garden? I keep dreaming … of that… and my little dog. Augustin.”
He had been a funny little terrier, Deanna remembered, who had been replaced by a pug, and then a cat, and then a bird, until finally there were no more pets. Marc-Edouard did not like animals in his house.
“Where … did you send … Augustin?” They had given him to a family in the country.
“He went to the country. I think he was very happy.” Deanna pattered on, but now her eyes sought Marc’s. What did this mean? Was she better or worse? She was reminded suddenly of the tiny baby boy who had moved so much in her arms in the few hours before he died. Philippe-Edouard. Was this the same, or was this a sign that she was improving? Neither of them knew.
“Mommy? … could I have … Augustin back? … You ask Papa. …” It was the voice of the child now. Deanna closed her eyes and took a quick breath.
“I’ll talk to Papa.”
Marc’s eyes were suddenly filled with fear. He looked at Pilar, and then Deanna. “We’ll get you a dog, chérie. … You’ll see. A wonderful little dog with floppy ears and a very waggly tail.” He was looking for anything he could find in his head, just to find the words to put in his mouth.
“But I want … Augustin.” The voice was plaintive now, and the nurse signaled them away. Pilar had drifted off again and she didn’t notice them leaving the room.
This time they paced up and down the hall, at first saying nothing. Without thinking, Deanna reached for Marc’s hand. “When the hell is Kirschmann coming back?”
“They said soon. Do you think she’s worse?”
Deanna nodded. “She seems nervous, fidgety, anxious.”
“But she’s talking. That might be a hopeful sign.”
“Maybe it is,” Deanna said. But there was terror in both their hearts. As they paced the hall, his arm slipped around her shoulders, and she didn’t fight him away. Suddenly she needed him there, as he needed her. He was the only person who understood, who could share what she felt, who knew.
“Marc?” He looked at her with anguished eyes, but she only shook her head. Tears poured down her face, and silently he took her into his arms. He had nothing to say, no words of comfort, only his tears to add to hers.
They walked the long hall again, end to end, seven or eight more times, and finally sat down on two straight-backed chairs. Deanna’s eyes were glazed with fatigue. She stared at the hem of her much-creased cream skirt.
“Do you remember when she was five and we got her that dog?” She smiled to herself as she remembered. They had hidden the little puppy in a boot and left him in Pilar’s closet, ordering her to immediately open the door and pick up her clothes. And there he had been, peeking out of the boot. Pilar had squealed with delight.
Marc smiled to himself too, with the memory. “I will always remember her face.”
“So will I.” Deanna looked up at him, smiling through her tears and reached for his handkerchief to blow her nose. It was strange. Only an hour before they’d been fighting and she’d been hinting at divorce. But it didn’t matter now. Their marriage was no longer what mattered, only their child. Whatever pain had passed between them, they still shared Pilar. At that precise moment Marc was the only person who had any idea what she felt and she was the only living soul who shared his terror with him. It was as if they held each other very tightly and didn’t let go, and kept moving, and kept talking and hoping and praying … then Pilar would still be there, she couldn’t die. Deanna looked up at Marc again, and he patted her hand.
“Try to relax.”
She sighed again and put a hand over her eyes, but before she could speak, the nurse was at their side.
“Doctor Kirschmann would like to see you. He’s in with her now.”
They leaped to their feet and almost ran to the room, where he stood at the foot of the bed, alternately watching the girl and the machines. It seemed hours before they walked out to the hall.
“Docteur?” Marc was the first to speak.
He looked grieved. “I want to give her a little more time. If things aren’t looking better in an hour, we’ll take her back to the operating room and see what we can do.”
“What do you think?” Marc wanted words from him, promises, guarantees.
“I don’t know. She’s holding on. I can’t tell you more than that.” He could have told them how good her chances were, but they weren’t, so he didn’t volunteer the odds. “Do you want to sit with her for a while?”
“Yes.” Deanna spoke first and reclaimed her post near Pilar’s head. Marc joined her.
They stood there like that for almost an hour, while Pilar slept, making strange sounds, now and then stirring, and seeming to fight for breath. Marc rested one hand on the bed, feeling the little frail body near him, his eyes never leaving her face. Deanna held her hand and waited. For something … for hope. The hour was almost over when at last she woke.
“Thirsty.…”
“In a little while, darling.” Deanna’s words were a gentle whisper caressed by a smile. She touched the girl’s forehead with an infinitely light hand. “In a while, my love. Now sleep. Mommy and Papa are here, darling. Sleep … you’re going to feel so much better, very soon.”
And then Pilar smiled. It was a real smile, despite the tubes, and it tore at Marc’s and Deanna’s hearts.
“I feel… better … now.”
“I’m glad, chérie. And you’ll feel much better tomorrow. Mommy is right.” Marc’s voice was as soft as a summer breeze. Once again Pilar smiled and closed her eyes.
It was only a moment later when the doctor stepped back in and nodded for them to go out.
He whispered to them as they left. “We’ll prepare her for surgery now. You can step back in in just a moment.” He turned, and they went outside. Deanna felt breathless now too, as though like Pilar she had to fight for air. The hallway was at the same time too cold and too stuffy, and she had to hold on to Marc for support. It was fou
r o’clock in the morning, and neither of them had slept in two days.
“She said she felt better.” Marc held out the slim hope and Deanna nodded. “I thought her color was a little better too.”
Deanna was about to say something but Dr. Kirschmann reappeared, coming down the length of the hall.
“Merde. He ought to be spending his time with Pilar, dammit. Not looking for us.” Marc began to walk toward him, but Deanna stopped. She already knew and clutched Marc’s arm. She knew, and she could walk no further. The world had just ended. Pilar was dead.
17
The sun was just coming up as they left the hospital. It had taken more than an hour to sign the papers and make the arrangements. Marc had decided that he wanted the funeral held in France. Deanna didn’t care. One of her babies was buried in California, the other in France. It didn’t matter to her now. And she suspected that Pilar herself would have preferred it. Dr. Kirschmann had been sympathetic and kind. There had been nothing for him to do. She had been much too far gone when they brought her in from the South of France. The blow to her head had been too severe, and he marveled only that she hadn’t died in the moments after the accident. “Ahh… motorcycles!” he said as Marc visibly cringed.
They had been offered coffee, which they had refused, and finally they were through. Marc took her arm and guided her gently toward the street. She felt as though her brain had ceased to function within the last hour. She couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t even feel. She had gone through all the formalities mechanically, but she felt as though she too had died.
Marc walked her to the little blue Renault and unlocked the door.
“Whose car is this?” It was a strange question to ask on a morning like that, but her eyes stared at him almost blindly as she spoke.
“It doesn’t matter, get in. Let’s go home.” He had never felt so tired, or so lost, or alone. All his hopes had been dashed, all his joys, all his dreams. It didn’t even matter to him now that he had Deanna, and Chantal. He had lost Pilar. The tears rolled slowly down his face again as he started the car, and this time he let them flow unchecked. He didn’t care.
Summer’s End Page 18