Sleight of Hand

by Robin Hathaway

  I resurrected an old cat carrier from the cellar, scrubbed it out, and placed Sapphire inside. That was easy. She was too sick to put up a fight. The catch was loose, but she was too weak to try to get out. I had to get her to a vet. That was part of my plan. I remembered the vet who had cared for my pets when I was a kid, Dr. March. If he was still in practice, I’d take Sapphire to him. And what else are you going to do, Jo? Fly to the moon?

  By the time we had made sure the stay-at-home cats had plenty of food and water and Lolly had kissed each one of them good-bye, it was 6:30 P.M. “They’ve never been alone before, Jo,” Lolly explained.

  “There are eleven of them, for Pete’s sake! Can’t they keep each other company?” I said irritably.

  Lolly looked at me reproachfully.

  “Sorry. Come on, get in the car. I’d like to get there before midnight.” And before Regina departs this world, I added under my breath.

  Max sat next to me in the front, resting his hand on a pillow. Lolly was in the backseat with Sapphire. I had managed to squeeze most of our luggage and the cat supplies in the trunk. We were going to be gone for only one night, for god’s sake! Lolly insisted on keeping some dry cat food and water in the backseat in case Sapphire got hungry or thirsty during the trip. I jammed my thermos of coffee (instant mixed with tap water) into the hole beside the steering wheel, checked the gas gauge—the tank was almost full—and started up.

  Once we were moving, my mood lightened. I realized that Max and Lolly might be excused for having some trauma over this trip. Neither of them had been away from Bayfield and its quiet bucolic atmosphere for many years. Living in Bayfield was a little like living in a time warp—a slower, quieter time. Except for television and the local newspaper, they had little contact with the high-speed, high-tech outside world the rest of us knew. Remembering my own culture shock when I’d returned to Manhattan after being away for a year, I had to sympathize with my passengers, even the four-footed one. As we approached the Jersey Turnpike, I tried to prepare them for what they were about to experience. At the same time, I was preparing myself.

  “The drivers tend to be pretty wild,” I warned them. “They cut in front of you and tailgate if you go less than eighty miles an hour. You have to be alert every minute.”

  Max cast me a nervous look. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

  Thanks for the vote of confidence. “We’ll see!” I said with a glee I didn’t feel.

  And the turnpike was nothing, I realized, compared to driving in Manhattan. Suddenly, it dawned on me: I’d never driven to Queens from Manhattan. I’d always taken the subway. “Oh hell.”

  “What’s the matter?” Max asked.

  “Nothing.” I paid the toll and headed for the big green-and-white sign: NEW YORK 100 MILES.

  Sapphire picked that moment to begin to yowl. The morphine took the edge off Max’s anxiety (nothing like a little drug fix), but every few minutes Lolly would ask in a plaintive tone, “Are we almost there?” or “How much longer?” or “What time is it?”

  Sapphire settled down around New Brunswick, but as soon as we hit Manhattan, the stop-and-go traffic annoyed her and she started up again. I got lost only three times, and we pulled into the garage next to Dad’s print shop a few minutes after midnight. Dad was waiting up, fully dressed, and gave us a big welcome.

  “I thought he was sick,” Max whispered to me as he got out of the car.

  Oh god. I’d forgotten that little detail. “He has his good days,” I muttered.

  Dad had meticulously prepared the two bedrooms for us. Lolly and I were to sleep in my room, Max in Dad’s room, and Dad on the couch in the living room. He had even fixed up a cozy basket for Sapphire in the kitchen. But in true cat fashion, she ignored it and curled up on the sofa, where Dad had barely enough room for himself.

  Everyone was settled and sleeping soundly—I could hear Lolly’s regular breathing next to me in the bed—but I was wide-awake. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw endless streams of taillights ahead of me and blurs of headlights coming toward me, and I felt the anxiety of getting my three dependent charges here safely all over again. And I knew I had to get up at the crack of dawn and go to Bellevue and see Regina—the purpose of this trip—and wring a confession from her (if she was the right Regina). And I hadn’t had a minute alone with Dad to tell him to act more sickly. Then there was the vet! What if he had retired? After a few more such unproductive thoughts, I fell into a restless, dream-torn sleep.

  CHAPTER 39

  I woke to the sound of hilarity in the kitchen. From snatches of conversation, I deduced that Dad was making pancakes in the shapes of animals for Lolly—and Lolly was laughing. He used to make them for me, I remembered, and he was very good at it. My favorite was the elephant. Uh-oh! If they were up, it meant I must have overslept again! I quickly showered and dressed and joined them in the kitchen. Max was sitting in the breakfast nook, staring out the window at the rooftops, as I had done a little over a week ago. I wondered what he was thinking.

  Dad had just completed a giraffe pancake, but when he tried to transfer it from the pan to Lolly’s plate, its neck broke in two.

  “Oh dear,” moaned Lolly.

  A bad omen?

  Max turned from the window and said, “I’ll take the head.”

  “No, Daddy! You can have the feet.”

  “And who gets the tail?” I asked.

  They all looked at me.

  “Late risers always get the tail,” Max said.

  “Huh.” He must be feeling better, I thought.

  “I’ll make another giraffe,” Dad said, and turned back to the stove.

  As I drank my coffee, I tried to join in the jollity, but my mind was occupied with Regina and how I could identify her. Then it hit me. What an idiot I was. Here were Max and Lolly—in my custody, so to speak. Either one could identify her. But my euphoria faded fast as I thought about it further. What excuse could I give for dragging Max to the hospital to see a complete stranger, especially when he wasn’t feeling well? And if she was his Regina, how cruel to have him see her in her present condition, when she was near death’s door. As for Lolly, confronting her mother after all these years might be too traumatic for her to handle. Dad was saying something.

  “Here’s your pancake.” He slid a perfect elephant onto my plate.

  He’d remembered. I ate it—trunk first, then the ears, the body last, just as I had when I was six. When I reached for more syrup, I noticed Sapphire sleeping under the kitchen table. Euphoria began to rise in me again. Regina may not have loved her daughter, but she’d loved her cats. And Sapphire had been her favorite; Lolly had said so. Why not take Sapphire to the hospital and see if Regina recognized her? What better way to establish her identity.

  I finished my pancake, rose abruptly, and dumped my dishes in the sink.

  “What’s up?” Dad looked at me suspiciously, wary of my impulsive ways.

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “Where?”

  “To take Sapphire to the vet.”

  “What vet?”

  “Dr. March.”

  “Is he still in practice?”

  “I don’t know.” Why was he being so difficult? Had he forgotten I was going to see Regina and that I had to make up some excuse for leaving the house? And now I had to have an excuse for taking Sapphire with me.

  “Why don’t you give him a call first? You’ll save yourself a trip if he’s retired.”

  Ignoring him, I pulled my jacket from the closet and hauled the cat carrier into the kitchen.

  “But she hasn’t had her breakfast,” Lolly objected.

  “So much the better. Sometimes doctors have to do tests, and they’re better done on an empty stomach.”

  “Can’t I go with you?” she asked.

  “No, Lolly, I want you to stay here with your dad, in case he needs anything.”

  Max seemed better, but he still looked a little dopey from the morphine.

  “Bu
t—”

  “Lolly, you and I can do a jigsaw puzzle,” Dad said. He had finally remembered why I had come. He kept still as I slipped Sapphire into her box, but when I made for the door, he asked, “When will you be back?”

  “I’ll call you.” I said, and slammed the door.

  I was halfway to the subway before I remembered I had a car. I hesitated, then pushed on. I couldn’t face driving in Manhattan traffic again so soon. Even with the cumbersome cat carrier, the train would be easier—and quicker. While waiting on the platform, I called the hospital for Regina’s room number, praying she wasn’t in ICU, where only relatives were allowed to visit. The operator told me she was on the sixth floor—the floor for critical patients, I remembered—in room 603.

  I was grateful that Sapphire didn’t yowl on the subway. Then I worried that she was too sick to yowl. I promised myself I would take her to the vet as soon as I had seen Regina.

  Bellevue Hospital looked the same: a frowsy Victorian frump surrounded by sleeker, more modern neighbors. I knew her well. I’d spent four years there. I paused out front, trying to think of the best way to smuggle a cat inside. Then I remembered a door at the back where we interns used to sneak out between shifts for a smoke. I could hardly believe I had once been a smoker. I’d stopped cold after attending my first lung operation—the patient, a middle-aged male smoker. One glimpse of that shriveled black tissue had been enough. I shuddered just thinking about it. Later, during my pediatric training, I had seen a child’s lungs. A beautiful, healthy salmon pink. The things we do to ourselves!

  By now, I had reached the back of the building and was maneuvering the cat carrier through the maze of trash cans. I had to be careful. Security would be much tighter now, as it was everywhere since 9/11. Damn. There was an orderly in green togs, enjoying a cigarette. He was blocking the door. He should know better! He spied the cat box and grinned. “Whatcha got in there?”

  “A friend of a patient.” I grinned back.

  He peered inside. “Man, she looks like a patient herself.”

  “She is. I thought she might like to see her owner before I take her to the vet.” I looked sad.

  Dismissing the possibility that Sapphire might be sitting on a bomb, he stepped away from the door to let us in.

  The interior of the hospital came back to me immediately. It was like stepping into an old pair of jeans. I was familiar with every nook and cranny. I walked automatically to the elevator and took it to the sixth floor. Miraculously, no one got on in the interim. I sped down the corridor, my burden bumping against my thigh, and scanned the room numbers—601, 602, 603. I poked my head in. Two beds, only one occupied, with a woman, her eyes closed. As I drew closer, I recognized all the signs of the terminally ill. Regina had been removed from the ICU because nothing more could be done for her and they had to make room for other patients, people with a more hopeful prognosis. She had been brought to this room to die. She was conscious, but she was on oxygen and appeared very weak. I had second thoughts about my plan. How could I disturb a woman who was so ill? It went against my entire medical training and feelings for human suffering. Fate took the matter out of my hands.

  When I’d entered the room, I’d set the cat carrier down on a chair beside the bed. The carrier was old and the door latch was loose. With a burst of energy—or curiosity (curiosity killed the cat!), Sapphire crawled out of the carrier and onto the bed. Before I could reach the cat, the woman opened her eyes and a look of horror spread over her face. “Get him out of here! I’m allergic to cats,” she croaked.

  I scooped up Sapphire, stowed her in the carrier, and almost knocked down a nurse on my way out.

  “Wait!” the nurse cried. I kept going.

  Fortunately, an elevator came and the doors opened just as I arrived. It was crowded, but I managed to squeeze myself and the cat carrier inside. I held my breath all the way to the ground floor. It wasn’t until I got outside that I realized my test had worked only too well. It had proved that this Regina was not the one I was looking for.

  CHAPTER 40

  Dr. March was still in practice, and at the same location. The neighborhood was more run-down than I remembered, but his office was the same. Dr. March had never been one for frills. His waiting room contained a few chairs, probably obtained from the Salvation Army when he had started practice thirty years ago, and the floor was plain cement so it could be mopped down easily each night after his four-legged patients had left. His patients were the same, but their owners had changed. Once Irish and Italian, they were now primarily Asian and Hispanic.

  I took a seat next to a Hispanic man with a frisky Lab and placed the cat carrier at my feet. The Asian woman across from me was cuddling a small fuzzy dog of unknown origin. The Hispanic man on my left was having trouble controlling his Lab. I loved Labs. I’d had one when I was a kid. Midnight was her name. I was making friends with the Lab when Dr. March appeared in the doorway. That was another of his quirks: He never stood on ceremony. He had an assistant who helped him with the animals in the back, but no pretty, starched receptionist reigned up front. He greeted his patients himself.

  He looked older and grayer, but he had the same kindly expression and air of competence that gave instant reassurance to the anxious owners of sick animals. When his gaze reached me, his face lit up. “Josey! What are you doing here?” (In my distress over the Regina episode, I had forgotten to call ahead.) He came over and gave me a firm handshake.

  I nodded at the cat carrier at my feet. He bent to look inside. When he stood, he addressed the others waiting. “I’m afraid I’ll have to see to this patient first,” he said. “It’s an emergency.”

  The other owners nodded gravely. Picking up the carrier, Dr. March ushered me into the back room. He removed Sapphire gently from the carrier and sat her on the scratched and dented metal-topped examining table that I remembered from years ago. It had more scratches and dents now. With deft hands, he felt her throat and abdomen. Then, with a small flashlight, he looked in her eyes and ears. The cat made no protest. “How long has she been like this?”

  “About a week.” I felt a sharp pang of guilt for not attending to her sooner.

  “How’s her appetite?”

  “Not good.”

  He brought out a syringe and took a blood specimen. Sapphire didn’t feel a thing. I wondered why Dr. March had chosen to treat animals instead of people. Without thinking, I asked him. “And don’t tell me it’s because they don’t talk back,” I said.

  I expected a jovial response. Instead, he said quietly, “Animals don’t let you down.”

  I remembered he was a bachelor. Such a kindly, energetic man should have married and had a family. I wondered who had let him down.

  “I believe she has a kidney infection.” He stroked her head and back. “I’d like to keep her overnight for observation, make sure the antibiotic is working.”

  I thought quickly about whether I could manage another night away from Bayfield. “All right,” I said.

  He went to a cabinet, took out a bottle of tablets, and shook two of them into his hand. Sapphire watched him placidly from the table. He forced her mouth open and shoved the tablets down her throat. It looked rough, but it was done with such dexterity the cat barely noticed. I knew I wouldn’t be able to do it as well.

  A curly-headed assistant in jeans and T-shirt stuck her head in the door. “Need me, Doctor?” she asked.

  “Yes.” He introduced Melanie to me and explained Sapphire’s condition and medication. She picked up the cat and crooned and petted her as she carried her off.

  “How’s your practice going, Josey?” He seemed in no hurry to see his waiting patients.

  “Okay.” I didn’t elaborate. I didn’t feel like explaining my exodus to south Jersey. Instead, I asked, “Is it possible for someone to develop an allergy to cats late in life?” My field of expertise was children. I wasn’t as well versed in this sort of thing.

  “Sure. It happens all the time.”

>   “Would a cat lover be likely to take a dislike to cats if they developed such an allergy?” I was grabbing at straws.

  “I’ve never heard of that. Most cat lovers keep their cats and put up with the allergy. And, of course, your cat is no stray. You know that, right?”

  I looked surprised.

  “She’s a short-tailed Persian, worth a few thousand. Her owner probably wouldn’t part with this kitty for that reason alone.”

  My shocked expression prompted him to ask, “Whose cat is she?”

  “A friend’s.”

  He looked quizzical, and I remembered how, when I was a child, he had always sensed when I was upset about something—and not just my animals. He had always offered just the right amount of consolation. But I wasn’t a child anymore. When I didn’t elaborate, he asked, “How’s your Dad?”

  “Good.”

  “Still working?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good for him. It’s the only way. I plan to go out with my boots on.”

  “You’re a long way from that,” I said heartily.

  “Great to see you, Josey. You come back tomorrow around nine o’clock and I’ll have Sapphire for you. I expect she’ll be fine.” He patted my shoulder.

  I thanked him profusely.

  As I left, I saw him greet the owner of the fuzzy little dog and cradle the animal in his arms. The Lab had settled down and was asleep at his owner’s feet.

  On the way to the subway, I wondered why, if Sapphire had such an expensive pedigree, Regina hadn’t taken the cat with her when she’d left Bayfield.

  Back at the apartment, my extended family was gathered around the television set, watching an old Western starring John Wayne. Lolly was the only one who looked up when I came in.