The Most Perfect Gift

by Hubert Furey

  Rachel eased down onto a chair by the table, continuing to survey the scene around her. Nothing was as she had expected. In contrast to what she had been leading herself to think, nothing about the room suggested coarseness or crudeness or vulgarity.

  As her eyes continued to roam the kitchen, she noticed a white envelope, conspicuously propped against a vase on the kitchen table. She studied the envelope, sensing that it contained an important clue to the mystery, her thoughts weighing the place it held in the unfolding narrative.

  It has to be an important message, she thought. She positioned it so it wouldn’t be missed by Aaron. Why don’t I just . . . no, I can’t. It’s just too cheap. However bad things are, I’m not stooping to opening other people’s mail.

  Her eyes reverted to the child, who now sat on a chair by the kitchen table, tightly clasping the teddy bear with both arms and swinging her legs in time to a lullaby she was singing to the stuffed animal.

  She seems so relaxed in my presence, a total stranger, Rachel thought. But where’s her mother? Which hospital?

  As if to answer her question, the child leaned forward, her teddy bear still clutched close to her body, extending the letter from the table.

  “Mommy said I had to give this to whoever was taking me.” She then resumed her singing to the teddy bear.

  The letter was addressed to Aaron, and she felt guilty taking the envelope from the child’s hand and extracting the letter from the unsealed envelope. But she couldn’t stop herself. She simply had to know. Her hands trembled as she unfolded the paper to reveal a short note, in writing so illegible that she found it impossible to get a sense of its contents. She did make out “take child to,” but she could not decipher the remainder of the sentence.

  The only real clue lay in the words “St. Mary’s hospital,” which the writer had taken extreme care to write clearly before the writing trailed off into complete illegibility, although the signature—Sarah—was also painstakingly clear.

  Rachel was as perplexed as ever, and she stood for some time, gazing alternately at the child and the letter, trying to understand what the words meant. Again suspicion clouded her thinking. There seemed to be only one explanation. The woman had obviously left the house for good, but for some reason could not take the child, who was to be taken by Aaron, so the note seemed to indicate. Then they were leaving together.

  It was the only possible explanation. Everything pointed to the fact that Aaron was supposed to join the woman and her child. She felt heartsick again, and the bitterness returned, as it had so often that afternoon. The worst now seemed to be the reality she would most certainly have to face.

  If I hadn’t discovered any of this, if I hadn’t confronted him on that telephone call, if I hadn’t come here, all three of them would be gone and I would be none the wiser, she thought.

  Ignoring the child, she slumped back farther onto the chair, convinced now that her worst fears had been realized. Yet something alien kept prodding at her self-conviction. Something didn’t fit. A lot of things didn’t fit.

  So she was called back to the hospital to deal with that big accident and had to leave the child with a sitter. Okay. That’s understandable. But when the crisis was over, why wouldn’t she simply return to her house and take the child, if indeed she were leaving with Aaron? Why did Aaron have to come and take the child simply because she received a demanding call to return to work? Rachel shook her head in confusion. None of it made any sense. She glanced again at the suitcase by her feet. What was she thinking? Aaron hadn’t mentioned leaving. These were crazy thoughts she had conjured up in her out-of-control imagination. He had tried to apologize for hurting her, professed his love for her, tried to explain. If she had only given him a chance to finish.

  She studied the note, which she still clutched in her hand. If only she could understand the writing! Where was he to take the child? That would be a clue.

  As if she were reading her thoughts, the child stopped her singing to turn to Rachel, the tone of her question surprised. “Aren’t you taking me to my new home?”

  The child’s voice roused her from her self-reflection. She studied the trusting eyes before contemplating the meaning of the question.

  “Taking you to your new home? What do you mean?” Perhaps there was a clue behind that innocent question, an answer that wasn’t making itself known.

  “Mommy said that whoever came would be taking me to my new home. Are you taking me to my new home?”

  The child’s statement only added to her well-confused state. If Aaron was to pick up the child and join her mother at the hospital, why would he be taking her to a “home” first? Maybe Aaron misunderstood the telephone message—he was distraught and the woman was talking very low—and went directly to the hospital.

  There was no getting around it. The hospital was the next place to go, to sort out this mess once and for all. If Aaron was there, fine! If not, she could confront this woman, deliver her child, then go locate Aaron. She stood up and strode toward the door, absent-mindedly forgetting the child still sitting at the kitchen table.

  “Aren’t you taking me with you?” The voice had no trace of fear or anxiety, just surprise, as she sat on the chair looking in Rachel’s direction, her arms wrapped around the teddy bear. When Rachel didn’t reply, she looked searchingly in her direction. “Mommy said you would be taking me.”

  Rachel was at a loss as to how to respond, but it suddenly struck her that she couldn’t leave the child alone.

  Aaron was supposed to pick her up, but perhaps he got the message garbled and went to the hospital first. Then if he still has to, with the way the roads are, the taxi could get tangled up in an accident. Or if he’s drinking . . .

  She knew if he began drinking again he could have simply forgotten the child. Whoever had written that note was trusting the child to her husband, and he hadn’t come yet, and possibly wouldn’t be coming. No, she couldn’t leave the child. Whatever was going on was not the child’s fault.

  It was coming on dark. Darkness came early in December in Newfoundland, and it would be too unsafe to leave a small child alone and unprotected. She helped the child on with her coat, then she reached down and grasped the small suitcase with one hand, reaching for the child with the other. “Come on, let’s go find Mommy.”

  “I don’t know where she is,” the child replied, looking up.

  “We’ll find her,” Rachel replied, surprised at the confidence in her voice.

  With the door securely locked, she eased her way down the icy steps and settled the child in the car, in the seat beside her, then once again headed the vehicle into the afternoon traffic. Darkness was settling in quickly, and she drove slowly through the snow, watching for pedestrians, trying to extricate herself from the unfamiliar surroundings.

  Once she got on the other side of town, it would be easy to find the hospital—she had worked there part-time in the early years of their marriage—and it would all be explained. The child sat by the door, still clutching the teddy bear, contentedly watching the passing scenes. Rachel was amazed that she was so at ease, totally comfortable there in the presence of a total stranger.

  The grey, concrete walls of St. Mary’s Hospital loomed over her as she parked the car in the snow-covered lot, nearly empty except for some vehicles parked in the restricted area. She glanced at her watch. Visiting hours were well over by now. Good! It would be easier to confront this woman without the presence of strangers.

  She took the child’s hand and walked through the entrance, stopping just inside to stamp off the snow from her boots. She was familiar with the hospital, and she headed directly for the reception desk, behind which stood a tall, attractive nurse and a very serious-looking middle-aged doctor, both of whom were earnestly conferring with the receptionist, who held an open file folder in her outstretched hand.

  Just d
own the corridor, a senior nurse was conversing in a formal manner with a group of younger nurses. Rachel didn’t recognize any of them, but then she hadn’t worked at this hospital in eleven years. She sat the child on a chair across from the desk and approached the receptionist, who had become aware of her presence and had swung her chair in Rachel’s direction.

  “May I help you?” The voice was professional, but warm, and the smile was genuine.

  Confronted by all three who had turned to her with interest, Rachel suddenly realized she really didn’t know the full name of the person she was seeking, and she stammered in reply.

  “Yes, I wonder where I could find a nurse . . . I don’t know her last name. Her first name is Sarah. I have some very urgent business with her.”

  She tried to look poised, but the facade was difficult to maintain, and she had to stifle the trembling in her lips. The receptionist frowned at the question and paused thoughtfully before replying.

  “We don’t have any nurse by the name of Sarah.”

  She then looked around at the two other people behind the desk, as if seeking confirmation of her response, but they were exchanging searching glances at Rachel’s question. Rachel felt offended by this sudden interruption of the smooth flow of her plan, but the logic of the response was evident. The poverty of Logan Street flashed across her mind. Of course! What was she thinking? A nurse wouldn’t have lived there. It must be one of the cleaning people.

  “Well, you must have someone who works here named Sarah, and it is imperative that I see her immediately.” Though unintentional, Rachel’s tone was provocative. The receptionist stared directly back at Rachel, and her eyes became hard in response.

  “This is only a small hospital, and I know everybody that works here, and there is no Sarah working here—in any position.” It had become a confrontation, and the receptionist was raising her voice. The group of nurses had stopped their discussion to witness the exchange between the two women.

  Rachel was lapsing into confusion. Had she misunderstood the letter? No, St. Mary’s Hospital was one of the two phrases that clearly stood out. She had to work here. Why would she pick a hospital for a place of rendezvous? Were they covering for her? She had to pursue it. Of course, the note. She reached into her pocket and produced the envelope containing the note, holding it up for all three behind the desk to see.

  “There is somebody in this hospital called Sarah. She says it herself on this note. St. Mary’s Hospital. Now, maybe you’re trying to cover for her . . .”

  It had come out before she could check it, and Rachel felt embarrassed at the cheapness of her words. The receptionist stiffened, her reply reflecting a restrained anger as she carefully measured her words.

  “The only Sarah we have here is a patient, Sarah Donahue, but I assure you she’s in no condition to see you or anybody else right now. I suggest you . . .”

  The receptionist’s certitude was making Rachel more insistent, and she felt herself becoming angry. However, she checked the impulse to retort and instead replied in a calm, measured tone, extending the envelope once more toward her listeners.

  “This note is signed by this woman, Sarah, and it clearly says St. Mary’s Hospital. Since the note is addressed to my husband . . .” She stopped. She had said enough. Her thoughts were becoming wild and irrational, and she had to appear in control, at all costs. Being silly and sentimental would not help. Besides, it was a private matter, not to be bandied about in front of strangers. She had to maintain her poise.

  The receptionist looked toward the doctor, totally at a loss to continue. The doctor, however, had assumed a thoughtful air and was studying Rachel closely, while looking beyond her to the child across the corridor. When he spoke, the question was slow, halting, relaxed in tone, as if he were turning something over in his mind.

  “How well do you know this Sarah?” He stroked his chin as he awaited the answer. The question caught Rachel off-guard, but she recovered, replying in a somewhat confused, hesitating manner.

  “Well, I’ve never actually met her, if that’s what you mean. But I have this letter with her name on it . . .” It was weak, but it was all she could think of. The doctor seemed unperturbed. He was still looking past Rachel to the sitting child. His voice was almost casual, but his face was deeply thoughtful, and his eyes had become sad.

  “Isn’t that her child?” Rachel started, alternately looking from the child to the doctor. Of course, if she had any connection with the hospital, naturally he would know. She improvised quickly. She found herself lying again.

  “Yes, I wish to bring the child to her and discuss”—she hesitated—“a very important matter.”

  It was still weak, but the doctor took no notice. Rachel observed the doctor and nurse exchanging quiet glances. She thought she heard “Perhaps she should,” but the words were almost inaudible. The doctor did not reply immediately. Instead, he turned to the bulletin board behind the desk, deliberately affixing a note, taking time, as if he were trying to collect his thoughts. When he turned to Rachel, he spoke slowly, softly, as if he were trying to avoid any trace of alarm. “I think Sarah Donahue is the person you want to see.”

  His easy familiarity bothered Rachel, and for a moment her suspicions were aroused. Still, for the first time since she entered the hospital, she felt a sense of relief. Things were beginning to fall into some kind of normal pattern again.

  “Thank you, thank you very much. As you can see, this is very important to me. And time is very important.”

  “Yes, indeed it is,” the doctor replied, still in the same quiet tone, a faraway look in his eyes.

  The receptionist and the nurse remained behind the desk, their eyes fixed on Rachel, not speaking. The doctor came forward until his lab coat touched the desk and leaned toward her. He kept his voice low, continually looking past Rachel to the sitting child.

  “Sarah Donahue, that child’s mother, is a very, very sick woman.”

  “Sick?” Rachel wanted to disbelieve him, but the look on the doctor’s face made no doubt about the veracity of his statement.

  “Terminally ill,” the doctor replied quietly. “I doubt very much if she will last through the night. This last attack was particularly detrimental. She really can’t hold on much longer.”

  Rachel stared at the doctor, horrified, totally unable to absorb the information he was giving her. There was something wrong with this explanation. Subconsciously following the doctor’s example, she too spoke in a very low tone in reply. She had to bring this conversation to a conclusion. Time was passing.

  “Look, this Sarah may not even be the same woman. And . . .”

  The doctor stopped her with a gesture of his hand.

  “Yes, Sarah Donahue is the same woman, and that is her daughter, Becky Donahue. I know both of them very well. They have been patients of mine for a long time.” He paused before continuing, in a very gentle tone. “You have to be Rachel Kearning, Aaron Kearning’s wife.”

  Rachel started at his mention of her name, dumbstruck. She had never seen the doctor before in her life. The doctor knew of her? Surprise, shock, and disbelief spread in turn over her face.

  Ignoring the effect his words had on her, the doctor was continuing, in the same soft, low tone. The nurse and the receptionist busied themselves with papers on the desk, as if not wanting to be part of what was transpiring before them.

  “Rachel—May I call you Rachel?—I’ve heard a lot about you over the last few hours.” The doctor stopped to let Rachel absorb his words before continuing. When he spoke again, it was obvious he had thought through something very carefully. “Perhaps you should see her, after all. Just for a minute or two. It might do you both good. Just let me check on her condition. Nurse Baxstrom! Would you please?”

  Rachel watched the nurse accompany the doctor down a short corridor before disappearing from v
iew behind the large metal doors. She then turned to look at the child, still sitting patiently on the chair, holding her teddy bear, becoming suddenly aware of how trusting the child had been with her.

  It was coming too fast, too fast to sort through. Her arch-enemy, the coarse, vulgar woman, was dying. The coarse, vulgar woman, whose hand could be seen everywhere in the tidy little apartment and the gentle, dreamy child that was looking back at her so trustingly.

  She thought back to her imagined meeting on Logan Street and wished now it had gone like that—a loud, screaming altercation with a harpy, a fight that she wouldn’t regret, that she would almost enjoy if she had seen her enemy pulverized and destroyed. What would she say to a dying woman, even if that dying woman had destroyed her marriage and her life and everything that went with her love and happiness?

  Rachel watched the doctor emerge alone from behind the closed doors, and she took a deep breath with anticipation as he approached, his face solemn, his shoes making no sound as they traversed the corridor floor. He stood beside her and again spoke quietly, nodding in the direction of the child.

  “For now it’s best to leave Becky, until we see how it goes. Miss Conlin will look after her while we’re gone,” he said, indicating the receptionist. With a barely articulate “Follow me,” he conducted Rachel through the doors down a long corridor, his voice increasing in tempo as he walked along, speaking in a factual, narrative tone.

  “When I first met her, she had just left the convent, seven years ago—some missionary order that operated out of Belgium, working with lepers in central Africa. That’s where she picked up the virus, an extremely rare tropical disease that nobody seems to know much about, although it appears to follow a particularly degenerative pattern.

  “It becomes active unpredictably, the patient recovers, entirely through the efforts of the immune system. However, each attack leaves the body in a much more weakened condition than the previous one. The drugs I gave her provided some relief, but there’s no cure, and the effects are particularly degenerative. All we can do is try to treat the pain, and even that is coming close to impossible. As the condition progresses, the attacks come on more suddenly, with absolutely no prior warning, and the patient just has time to get to a hospital or call an ambulance before sinking into unconsciousness.”