The house did not look welcoming as he pulled into the garage. The windows were dark, except for those in the living room, and no one had turned on the front lights. He felt his way across the gravel driveway in the darkness.
Janni, Maris, and Rennie were in the living room, but the house felt empty. Jay was still at Blair, and Kit was lying asleep in the recovery room of the Maternity Unit, unreachable. She didn’t exist for him tonight.
He wanted to be surrounded by friends. Friends who wanted nothing of him other than his quiet company. Friends who would massage the knots out of his shoulders. He was too tired, too empty to offer anything in return.
But as he stood near the front door, looking into the expectant faces of his three housemates, he knew that he would not find what he wanted here. There was too much tension in this room.
“You’re back,” he said to Janni. She was wearing a San Francisco T-shirt.
“I missed the whole damn thing, didn’t I?” she said. “I called the hospital and Jay said there wasn’t much point to my coming over, that Kit’s out of it. How’s the baby?”
“Not good.” He looked around the room. He felt disoriented. “I need milk,” he said.
“Well, get your milk and join us,” said Janni. There was a curt snap to her voice. He pretended not to hear it, as if ignoring it would make it go away. He needed Janni’s warm side tonight.
“I don’t know.” He buried his hands in his pockets. “I’m exhausted. I might just go to bed.”
“But we want to hear about the baby,” Rennie whined.
And I don’t want to talk about it.
“Come on, Cole, stay with us a while,” Maris pleaded.
“Okay,” he said, against his better judgment. “For a few minutes.”
He went to the kitchen and returned with a glass of milk.
“The baby’s not going to die or anything, is she?” Rennie asked as he sat next to Maris on the couch.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. She could. She has severe respiratory distress.”
“That’s crazy,” Rennie said. “Babies don’t die.”
He felt as if she were blaming him.
“Poor Kit,” said Janni. “It must have been horrible for her.”
He nodded and leaned back. He couldn’t sit up on his own any longer. “Yes, it was,” he said. “For me, too. I made a decision that I’m never going to do this again. I won’t have a friend as my patient.” He’d felt enormous relief when he’d come to that conclusion. As soon as Kit was back on her feet, he’d refer her to someone else.
“Where does that leave me?” Janni asked.
“There are plenty of good gynecologists around, Jance.”
“I have no say in the matter?”
“Janni.” He sat forward and frowned at her. “Have a little compassion, okay? I don’t think I use my best judgment when I’m making decisions about a friend’s welfare.”
Janni was quiet, but only for a moment. “Cynthia called this afternoon,” she said.
He groaned. Cynthia. “Did you explain to her that I didn’t intentionally stand her up last night?”
Maris squeezed his arm. “She knows that, baby.”
“You could have called her,” Janni said.
“It was just about the last thing on my mind.”
“I think she’s figured that out. She’s catching on that when it comes to Kit she’ll always have to take a back seat.”
He felt his face redden. “That’s not true. My mind’s on Kit right now, but . . .”
“But what?” asked Janni. “How can you expect to have a normal relationship with another woman if you come home and tell Kit everything that went on with her? That was the problem with Estelle too, wasn’t it?”
He felt backed into a corner. “Why are you being such a bitch?” he asked.
“Really, Cole, it’s so unfair to Kit.” Janni plowed ahead. “She’s never going to get something going with Orrin or any other man as long as you keep her as your confidante. When are you going to admit to yourself that you care more about Kit than anyone else in the world?”
Cole set his milk on the coffee table and stood up. “I don’t get why you’re doing this to me,” he said.
“Why didn’t you call me?” The tears started down Janni’s cheeks, and he looked away. He didn’t want to feel any sympathy for her. “I promised Kit I’d be there for her and you cut me out.”
“Janni, if you’re angry with me, why don’t you just say it instead of throwing all this other shit my way?” He didn’t wait for her answer. He turned and headed for the stairs, for the haven of his room.
It was a long time before he fell asleep. He couldn’t get Janni’s words out of his mind. She was right. He used Kit. He’d go out with Cynthia, have a good time, come home, and use Kit as his therapist. And she did the same with him. He’d made her dependent on him.
Tomorrow he’d start fresh with Cynthia. He’d tell her everything that came into his head. He hadn’t given her a chance to get close, really.
And he would cut back on the time he spent with Kit. This would be the perfect time to do it. She was out of the house. She was no longer pregnant. It would just be one change among many for her.
The phone woke him from a sleep that left him more tired than refreshed. Someone in another part of the house answered it, and he lay still waiting. The clock on his night table read quarter to six. A bad sign. Let it be the baby and not Kit.
“Cole!” It was Janni, calling him from downstairs. She must not have slept well either. Good.
He picked up the receiver. “This is Cole Perelle.” The rasp of his voice surprised him.
“Dr. Perelle, this is Valerie in the nursery. I wanted to let you know that the Sheridan baby died about an hour ago.”
He shut his eyes. “Does her mother know yet?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’ll be right there.”
They’d moved her to a private room on the Maternity Unit. It was small and sterile and smelled antiseptic.
She was inhumanly pale, her lips white and papery. She smiled weakly at him. “Hi,” she said.
He sat on the edge of her bed and took her right hand, the one that wasn’t attached to the IV. “Hi.” He leaned over and kissed her warm cheek.
“Is today Friday?”
“No. It’s Saturday. About seven-fifteen in the morning.”
“I lost a day somehow.”
“Yesterday was a hard one for you.” He touched her hair, smoothed it away from her face with his fingers. It was the only color in the room.
“Did Janni get back yet?”
“Yes, last night. She was upset about not having been here for you.”
“Tell her not to worry about it. How’s Rennie?”
“Okay. She misses you, but she’s doing all right.”
She smiled a little and turned her eyes away from him.
He had to tell her now. He opened his mouth but she stopped him.
“Jay helped yesterday, didn’t he, or did I dream that?”
“Yes, he assisted,” he said.
She looked at the ceiling and blinked hard. “The longer I keep you talking about other things the longer I can pretend Alison’s all right.” She looked at him then, waiting for him to speak.
He tightened his grip on her hand. “She died this morning, Kit.”
“No! Shh, please!” She pulled her hand away from his to cover her ear.
“I’m sorry.”
He waited while she cried, her face as colorless as the sheets.
“I didn’t even get to see her,” she said.
“You can. As soon as you feel up to it we can bring her over for you to see.”
“Today?” There was childlike hope in her voice.
“I think tomorrow would be better.” He wasn’t being fair. She was probably ready right now. He was the one who wouldn’t be able to handle it today.
“Don’t let them do an autopsy until I get to see h
er.”
“They won’t. You have to sign for an autopsy.”
“But what if they do it by mistake?”
“They won’t, sweetheart.” He touched her cheek and his fingertips came away wet.
“But what if she really wasn’t dead and they thought she was and they put her in the refrigerator and she—”
“Kit.” He leaned down and took her in his arms. “She died, honey. Alison’s dead. Her lungs weren’t ready.”
“I shouldn’t have run.” She sobbed against his neck. “She’d still be safe inside me.”
“That has nothing to do with it.”
“But if only I—”
“Shh.” He rocked her gently as if she were a child, not wanting her to say another word. “It’ll be all right.”
Cynthia sat across from him at dinner, in a soft, appealing gray pantsuit, her eyes never leaving his face as he told her about the past two days. She reached across the table to take his hand and murmured words of sympathy, and he began to feel manipulative. It was like flicking a switch, the way he could get her to care about him.
After dinner they went back to her house and made love. She lay smiling in his arms afterward, and he softly scratched her back, but his mind was on Kit. He hadn’t spoken to her since that morning when he’d told her about the baby. He’d called the unit a few times to check on her condition, but he deliberately avoided calling her. Janni said she’d spend the afternoon with her. That was better. She should have a woman with her right now. He’d only be a reminder of yesterday’s nightmare.
They were eating pizza at the kitchen table when he got home.
“Please join us,” Janni said.
“I’m not a masochist.”
“Give us a chance to make up to you for last night,” said Maris.
Rennie’s face was turned up to him, anxious little lines etched around her wide blue eyes.
“Sit down, Cole.” Jay pulled out the chair next to him, and Cole lowered himself into it, inside an invisible suit of armor.
They obviously had a plan. They went around the table in order, competing with each other in the eloquence of their apology. They were sorry for not giving him more support, they said. He felt hard and annoyed. He listened without comment. Janni spoke last and there was an almost hysterical quality to her voice as she begged him to forgive her. He thought of telling her that the wedge she’d pounded between them would take a long time to dislodge, but she wasn’t worth the strength it would take to get the words out.
When she was finished, Cole let them stew for a minute in silence. “Are you all through?” he asked finally.
They nodded.
“Good night, then.”
He rose and walked toward the stairs, pleased by the vibrations of disappointment he left behind him. In the morning he would be kind. But for tonight, there was no other way.
41.
Was it Sunday? Kit wasn’t certain, although otherwise she was painfully lucid. She knew where she was. She was in that closet-sized room at the end of the hall in the Maternity Unit. It was as far from the nursery and the cries of the babies as they could get her. And she was thinking clearly enough to know she was lonely. Janni’d spent much of Saturday with her and she’d been wonderful, letting her recount the same dim memories of the past few days over and over. Kit couldn’t stop talking and Janni encouraged her. Helped her separate one piece of pain from another. Janni knew what helped and what didn’t.
But when Janni left, she was alone. She thought for certain Cole would come in to see her, but he didn’t. Her sister called, begging Kit to let her come, but the last thing she wanted was to have Paula in Mantoloking. It would be more of a responsibility than a relief.
Jay stopped by Saturday evening to check her incision. He kissed the top of her head and told her he loved her. They’d all be happy to get her home, he said.
And Orrin sent flowers. I was very sorry to hear about your loss, he’d written on the card, as if she were no more than a client.
She cried most of Saturday night, imagining Alison in the morgue. She pictured her in a little wooden box, walnut-colored and highly polished. Sometime near morning she realized that Alison was more likely in a suffocating plastic bag than a box and she cried harder. She couldn’t get the image out of her mind.
It was ten in the morning by the time Cole came into her room. She felt as though she’d been holding her breath all night and could finally let it out.
“You’re doing very well,” he said, her chart in his hand.
“Can I see her today?”
He nodded. “Are you up to it now?”
“Yes.” She tried to sit up but a dagger of pain pierced her side.
“Well”—he looked hesitant—“if you really feel up to it we can bring her over. Or you can wait until this afternoon.”
Now. She wanted to see Alison now. She didn’t let her face show pain as he cranked up the head of her bed.
Her nurse appeared at the door to her room. “Shall I get the baby?” she asked. She looked as though she would rather walk across hot coals.
Cole stood up. “I’ll go,” he said. At the door he turned back to face her. “She’ll feel very cold, Kit.”
She made herself nod. She thought of dead adults she’d seen at funerals, ethereal and untouchable, and her heart jiggled its beat. She didn’t want to be afraid of her own baby.
It seemed like a long time before he returned, wheeling one of the little plastic cribs from the nursery. Inside was a pink bundle. Her hands shook uncontrollably as he came closer, and she locked them together in her lap.
Cole lifted the bundle out of the crib as carefully as if he were handling a live baby and set it on Kit’s thighs. She felt the cold through the blankets. He pushed the one chair in the room against the far wall and sat on its edge.
She was glad Alison was completely covered by the blanket. She needed to go slowly. With a trembling hand, she reached forward and gently tugged the blanket away from the baby’s face. She caught her breath. Alison’s features were perfect, carved in pale wax.
“My God, she’s beautiful.” Her hand was steadier now, and she ran her fingers over the miniature nose, the ear like a delicate seashell.
“So much hair.” She smiled, smoothing the pale copper fluff, so soft she could barely feel it, under her fingertips. “This was the color of my hair when I was a baby.”
Cole didn’t answer, as though he knew her words weren’t meant for him.
She pulled the blanket away slowly, taking in every part of her baby and seeing with an overwhelming sadness that she was perfect. Down to the tiniest toe and speck of a nail.
She looked at Cole. “There’s nothing wrong with her,” she said, as if asking him how he could possibly think this was a dead baby he’d placed in front of her.
“It’s inside,” he said.
“I want to hold her.”
He stood up. “With or without the blanket?”
“Without.” The bare skin of her arms tingled.
Cole set the baby in her arms, the tiny head resting in the crook of Kit’s elbow. It felt perfect. Even with the cold and the shivery weakness that ran through her. Skin against skin. Her breasts ached. If Cole weren’t here, would she try to fit her nipple into Alison’s mouth? Yes, she thought, a little alarmed, she probably would. She’d heard about that—mothers who went a little crazy when their babies died.
“Alison.” She said it without thinking. “I’m sorry . . . I never knew this would happen.” She was vaguely aware of Cole rising, turning to look out the window of her room. “I wish I had it to do all over again,” she whispered. “I’d do it right this time.” She watched one of her tears land on Alison’s cheek and roll over her lips and across her chin, as if the baby had cried it herself. “My baby.” Kit hugged the little body to her, afraid she would never be able to let go.
Cole turned and walked toward her.
“One last look,” she pleaded, setting Alison back o
n her thighs. She traced her face with her fingers, trying to commit every line of it to memory. “She’s really pretty, Cole, isn’t she?”
He nodded.
“I wish I’d seen her eyes.”
“They’re blue. I think they’ll probably stay . . . I mean, they would have stayed blue.”
“Like Paula’s.” She thought of her sister’s clear blue eyes. “She looks a little like Paula, I think.”
“Ready?” He was probably getting impatient with her. She nodded, and he lifted Alison out of her lap and placed her back in the crib. He picked up the blanket and set it in a crumpled mound on top of her.
“Could you smooth it, Cole?”
“Hmm?”
“The blanket.” She blushed. “I . . . it’s just that I’d feel better if you’d smooth it out a little.”
He picked up the blanket, folded it in half and set it neatly over the baby. “Okay?” He smiled at her and she nodded. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he said.
He walked out the door and she had to stop herself from calling him back.
Orrin visited on Monday. He looked impeccable as always in a navy blue suit, sitting a few feet from her bed, staring at her. She knew she looked terrible. Her hair hung limp and unwashed around her face. She wished she could hide from his eyes.
As good as Orrin could be with words, he was at a loss for them now. She wished he would talk. Fill up the silence with his usual rhetoric.
“Would you like to see a picture of Alison?” She felt shy, asking him. She’d been showing it to everyone who came in her room, this paper-thin substitute for a baby. It was all she had.
He nodded.
She pulled the Polaroid snapshot from the drawer of the hospital night table and handed it to him. “The nursery took it before she died.”
He barely glanced at it before handing it back to her. “It’s hard to see what she looked like,” he said.
Secrets at the Beach House Page 24