Leslie slid off the bed and moved toward him, mashing her breasts against his chest. “He was going to lose his gross motor capabilities. No running, no skateboarding. Eventually, no walking. Did you really want his parents to watch their son debilitate until he became nothing but a shrunken mass of fried nerve endings and withered muscle? That’s not life.”
“Defining life isn’t my job. My job is saving kids, as many as I can, for as long as I can.”
“Maybe Someone knew better than you this time.”
He thought of the boy’s smile, his excitement when Jack offered him the Yankees tickets. How do you measure that quality? Would his parents have bartered for more time to give their son that one small remaining pleasure? He’d bet to hell they would have. But they’d been denied that right and Jack felt responsible. He’d gone through the surgery notes and the post op record. Everything had gone as anticipated and then a curve ball from left field snuffed out a ten year old’s life. Unpredictable. Just like his sister’s death. That’s what ate at him, that, and the look on Ted and Shirley Menden’s face when Jack drew the ICU curtain and told them they’d lost their son. It was the same look his mother and father had twenty years before.
Leslie laced her arms around his neck and rubbed her belly against him. “You’re a great doctor. People fly from all over the world to see you. Don’t let this sad, but inevitable misfortune take away from that.” When he didn’t react to her words or her ripe body, she planted a light, open-mouthed kiss on his lips and murmured, “Come back to bed.”
That was the last thing he needed right now. Jack untangled her arms and stepped away. “I need to get to the hospital.” Thankfully, she didn’t follow him into the shower and attempt to stroke him into a mindless frenzy. Maybe she knew it wouldn’t work today. Nathan Menden’s freckled face tortured him. Almost as much as Audra Valentine’s.
***
Doris O’Brien refused a second dose of valium. She must remain clear when Pastor Richot arrived. She needed his comfort as only a sinner could. Sixteen years in the convent, countless novenas, and rosaries of Hail Mary’s and Our Father’s had not lessened her conviction that she was one of God’s tainted souls. If not, would she have fornicated with a young priest just out of seminary, produced a daughter who God struck down at the tender age of two, and then toppled into an abyss of sexual promiscuity and illegal drugs? But who would not have turned to the unadulterated bliss of sensation through flesh and mind altering substances after losing an only child? Mary Rose’s death was not a quiet one, taken in the grips of a brain infection as little Rachel Wheyton’s had been. Those deaths might torture the parents forever, but they spared the child. Mary Rose drowned in five inches of water. Epileptic fit. Spawn of a devil deed, she drew her last breath alone while her mother—a mere floor below—prepared her favorite meal of chicken soup with tiny meatballs.
People called Doris crazy, and maybe she was, but she knew what she knew. Seeing that poor boy stretched out in a coffin like Adonis brought back memories, and with them, the conviction that if she did nothing else in her unfortunate existence, she would right her best friend’s name.
She knew what people said about Audra Valentine and her mother. Lies. Corrine was not a whore, or hadn’t been when she got pregnant. Maybe nobody cared anymore, but they sure slung the Valentine name around enough as though they’d never fornicated outside of marriage, as though they’d never done a nasty deed in their lives. Damn hypocrites, all of them. August Richot wouldn’t judge or surmise, or even suggest. He would help her uncover and remember the truth.
After all, he’d been there when Corrine met her demise. Maybe he couldn’t tell Doris the truth outright, but he’d tell her, one way or the other—a look, a word, a fidget. One thing she’d learned in her years in and out of psychiatric care was how to read a situation. Damn, she needed a cigarette! Doris sniffed in a dollop of air from the tube in her nostrils and concentrated on keeping her head clear. She breathed in and out, until finally, despite her best efforts, she dozed.
When she woke some time later, August Richot stood at the hospital window, illuminated by the setting sun which cast an ethereal presence over him, as though indeed he possessed special powers. Three African violets lined the ledge in soft, lavender beauty. It was said Isabelle Richot had held a special fondness for African violets and the good pastor carried on this tradition in honor of his beloved wife by presenting violets to the sick and needy, of whom Doris was both. She clasped her bony hands together, careful not to disturb the IV tubing. “Thank you for coming. I know all the sinners in this town keep you hopping.”
August smiled and held up a watering can. “It’s my pleasure to be here, Doris.” He lifted a turkey baster and waved it at her. “You know what this turkey baster is for?”
Doris slouched against her pillow and considered the question. “Well, aside from the obvious, I once heard a woman tried to suck up some of her man’s leftover juices with one and then use it to inject up inside herself. Kind of invitro with a baster.”
“Ah, no, that’s interesting, but that wasn’t what I was thinking of.”
Doris let out a snuffled laugh. She could say anything to August and it never riled him. She once told him how she stole Prozac from a fellow patient and then convinced the woman the pills had magically disappeared. Another time she stripped naked and marched down Fifth Street with a huge sign reading, ‘Sinners Confess’. Of course, he knew about that one since it landed her in Syracuse State Mental Institution a second time. August never judged her and maybe that’s why she visited him at least once a week. That and because after all, she was a sinner.
He plunged the baster in a pitcher of water and pulled it out with careful precision. “Watch closely and you will never kill another African violet.”
“August, the only flowers I grow are dandelions.”
“No matter, it’s valuable information.” He placed a plant with delicate lavender flowers and pine-colored, velvet leaves on the adjustable table next to her. “Now observe. Violets like to be treated gently—like people. They don’t want their leaves ruffled or touched too harshly. And if you water them from the top only, they’ll rot. You have to provide sustenance from the bottom up, just like people.” He depressed the bulb of the baster and filled the saucer beneath the violet. “Gradual dissemination of water permits the roots to grow and become strong. Again, same as people. Information fed a bit at a time stays with a person much longer than a bucketful tossed in the face all at once.”
Doris tried to lean on one elbow to watch the water disappear from the saucer as the roots absorbed it. “Kind of like a sponge.”
“Kind of.” His voice moved over her with the same gentleness he used with the violet. “But sometimes, the roots need a little extra help and that’s where the baster comes in.” He located a space of dirt between two leaves and eased the plunger into the soil. “If you make a hole and water away from the crown, you won’t rot out the plant and you’ll strengthen the roots.”
Doris watched as the soil turned moist and black. “What does that have to do with people?”
“It’s about being slow and steady, building a strong foundation—with trust, commitment, compassion, none of this slap-in-the-mud rush or over-the-top craziness that does nothing but confuse and destroy.”
“Hmmmm.” He had a way of saying things that made sense every now and again. “Did you hear Audra Valentine went back to California?”
August squeezed the plunger so hard, water splattered all over—onto the pine-colored green leaves, the delicate, purple flowers, the crown. “Doris,” he said in his sermon voice, “I am not going to divulge any information about Audra’s parentage. I couldn’t three days ago and I can’t now.”
“I’m not asking for an outright name. Just a few clues here and there.” How could two or three inconsequential tidbits about the person in question be interpreted as betraying August’s ecclesiastical oath? Anyone who knew the man knew he sat on the righ
t hand of the Creator. Lord Almighty, some even said August Richot was the Savior in the Our Savior Lutheran Church. Doris would have to say she agreed.
“You know as well as I, that I can’t give you what you’re asking.” He set the baster and violet on the ledge and sat in the vinyl chair next to the bed. “Why do you want to dredge this up now? Thirty years is a long time. People move on with their lives.”
She yanked a Kleenex from the box on the table and swiped at her eyes. The memories pounced on her again, as they had since the day Corrine told her she was pregnant. “Because I can’t move on,” she whispered in a small voice. “Corrine tried to come to me and I abandoned her.”
“Visiting your aunt in Connecticut for the summer was not abandoning her.”
“I shouldn’t have gone. I should have paid more attention to those visits she made to that damn Bartholomew Benedict to cleanse her heart and soul of impure thoughts.” The pain of regret gouged her senses, rendering her incapable of feeling anything but guilt and neglected responsibility.
“Don’t talk like that. Father Benedict is a good man.”
August stroked her back and spoke in a reassuring voice as one would to a caged animal. He was right to treat her that way—she was caged in a brain and a life that refused to set her free.
She squinted at him, the haziness of his words taking shape into meaning. There was a clue there, she sensed it, if only she could pull it out. Doris blinked hard, wishing they hadn’t forced that valium on her earlier. She focused on August’s eyes, the mirror of his Christian soul. They couldn’t lie. Then she opened her mouth and forced sound to the suspicion she’d held for almost thirty years. “Is Father Benedict Audra Valentine’s father
Chapter 14
“How do you think Christian would want us to handle this?”—Peter Andellieu
“How long has she had these headaches?”
Audra shifted in her chair and glanced at her daughter who lay on the exam table, eyes closed, breathing even, a much different scene than forty minutes ago when Peter carried her into the doctor’s office in a near panic.
“A few months. I’d get phone calls from school about Kara complaining of a bad headache. At first, we thought maybe it was a fabrication to get out of math class, where most of the headaches occurred. But one look at her face and I could see she was in pain.”
Dr. Jacob Gressling made a few notations in Kara’s chart. “I see she had an eye exam two months ago.”
“Her vision is perfect.”
He nodded as doctors do when they’re assimilating information into diagnosis. “The CT scan is unremarkable.”
“Meaning?”
“It looks fine. Kara’s been through quite a bit this past month and a half and we can’t discount that,” he said, casting Peter a cursory glance. That look had followed them everywhere these past several weeks. Inquisitive. Suspicious. Not the admiring stares Christian and Peter always received which negated Audra’s presence. Now that Christian was gone, the glances were more direct. People assumed she and Peter shared more than simple conversation, some even asked if Kara was their child.
But Dr. Perfection was well known and well publicized. Women wanted him. Men wanted to be like him. If the questions continued, how long before Audra found herself on the cover of People? Wouldn’t Alice Wheyton and that gossiping clan of cronies have a ball with that? And what if someone from the West Coast discovered her past? An illegitimate child of a whore.
“Yes, it’s been difficult for all of us,” Peter said, his blue gaze challenging Dr. Gressling.
Jacob Gressling nodded, tore a piece of paper from a pad and handed it to Audra. “I’d like you to keep a headache chart for the next few weeks. Jot down the day and time of the headache, duration and intensity. Let’s see if we can establish a pattern.”
Audra thanked him and scheduled a follow-up appointment for three weeks. The doctor had touched on an issue Audra wondered about herself. Had Christian’s death exacerbated or even created Kara’s recent headaches? Stress could bring about all manner of ills, the least of these, headaches. Maybe once they settled back into a routine, the headaches would diminish and then disappear. Routine was the key right now. No extra stressors either, certainly not Alice Wheyton’s nightly calls to Kara. Those would go first.
“How do you think Christian would want us to handle this?”
They hadn’t spoken since he pulled out of the parking garage three stop lights ago. “What do you mean?”
He glanced in the rearview mirror. “She’s asleep?”
Audra looked at Kara whose soft, even breath shifted her tiny chest in rhythmic motion. Head bent, eyes closed, she clutched the stuffed gorilla Joe Wheyton had bought her. “She’s asleep.”
“People are noticing us, Audra.”
“So?” She didn’t like the resignation in his voice.
“So, I’m wondering how Christian would want us to handle this.”
“He’d want you to be here for us.” She touched his sleeve.
“But at what cost?”
“I need you. Please.” She’d just lost Christian, she could not lose Peter, too.
He merged onto the highway, his long fingers moving gracefully from the turn signal to the wheel. “You know I’d do anything for you. And Kara”—the edge of his jaw tensed—“I love her like my own child.”
“We need you, Peter.”
For all the public attention he received, Peter still protected his privacy and the privacy of those close to him. People and Entertainment Weekly thought they knew the man behind Dr. Perfection, but they had no idea the man on and off screen were two very different people.
“I’m serious, Audra. I won’t put you at risk. If the public got a hold of you, they’d be worse than vultures at a road feast.”
“They won’t get a hold of me. I won’t let them.”
“Craftier women than you have found themselves burned by tabloids.”
***
Four cups of hospital coffee and three hours later, Jack still couldn’t figure out what went wrong with Nathan Menden. He’d practically memorized the boy’s file, spoken with the anesthesiologist on the case, even consulted with his friend and colleague, Bernie Kalowicz. No one could give him insight into why the boy coded, other than the obvious—post operative complications. Bernie said sometimes there were no answers, sometimes a Higher Power takes over.
Jack was a man of medicine and theory who relied on skill and knowledge to help his patients. Faith had a role but he left that to the patients and their families. They came to him for help and he was not about to start spouting off philosophical rhetoric or pulling out rosary beads.
He’d seen pretty much everything over the years, from holy water sprinkled outside the operating room door to crosses painted in magic marker on a patient’s body. If the patient believed, great, if he trusted his doctor, better. Jack knew about the statistics claiming prayer helped heal, which he considered a mere bonus for a well-performed surgery. If a patient had an incompetent surgeon, all the prayers in the world weren’t going to help him.
He ran a hand over his face and pushed back his chair. Bernie told him to chill or Jack would go into his next surgery with a monkey on his back. Bad enough he had Grant Richot questioning and second guessing everything he did. The guy was an arrogant bastard with a chip on his shoulder the size of Massachusetts and if he weren’t Leslie’s brother and Jack’s boss, he’d tell him to take his speculations and shove them.
But he wouldn’t, partly because of Leslie, but mostly because McMahon Children’s Hospital was still one of the most well-respected hospitals for pediatric neurosurgery and congenital anomalies—Jack’s specialty. Richot might insist Jack dot every bureaucratic ‘i’, but the man knew Jack’s skill and reputation as a premier surgeon and Richot was not going to throw that away. They tolerated one another for the sake of the hospital and of course, for Leslie.
The sharp knock on the door disrupted Jack’s thoughts but before
he had a chance to respond, the door opened and Jack’s nemesis entered carrying an official looking file with an embossed hospital emblem on the front.
“Jack. I heard you were here.”
“I’ve got surgery in an hour. Can’t it wait?” He glanced at Grant’s right hand, glanced away. Too late.
Grant’s face tightened like he’d had one too many Botox injections. “Actually, no, but you already knew that, didn’t you?”
And there it was, the animosity stretching between them, year after year. When Jack broke the district record for discus in eleventh grade, Grant won the state title. When Jack earned a partial scholarship to Syracuse University, Grant had a full ride to Rutgers. Jack chose neurology as a field of study, so did Grant. Jack always wondered if Grant chose that particular specialty simply because he knew it was Jack’s passion and wanted to best him at it. Grant Richot was always two steps ahead of Jack and medical school was no exception. He graduated from Boston University a year earlier from an accelerated program and took a job at McMahon Children’s Hospital. The Neurology community called him their new wonder boy. He appeared in newsletters and panels, always with a ready smile and words of encouragement. Families traveled hundreds of miles in hopes the new doctor’s skill and innovative techniques would save their child.
Jack graduated from SUNY at Buffalo and took a job as a pediatric neurosurgeon at Syracuse Medical Center. His upward climb through the medical community was steady but not the rocket launch Grant’s had been. In three years, Grant was named Chief of Pediatric Neurosurgery. He met a fellow doctor with blue eyes and a wicked sense of humor and married her six months later. Their beautiful faces splashed across the front page of The Holly Springs Sentinel. Then it was all over.
While honeymooning in the Dominican Republic, Grant and his bride took a side trip to a neighboring village reported to have hand-crafted silver jewelry. The driver misjudged a curve and the car flipped over an embankment and trapped all three occupants. The new Mrs. Richot died instantly of internal injuries. The driver escaped with a slight limp and a bloody face. As for Grant, he lost a wife and forty percent of the nerves in his right hand, which had been smashed against the car door.
Pulling Home (That Second Chance) Page 9