A Deadly Affection (46 page)

“Where do you think you're going?” Lucille snapped.

He paused, turning back to her. “I am instructing my valet to remove my luggage from the train.”

“Get back here this instant!” she demanded. “Nothing has changed.”

My mother stood and crossed over to her. “Lucille, no,” she said quietly, laying a hand on her arm. “This isn't the way.”

Lucille's eyes ranged over her face. She opened her mouth as if to protest, but something in my mother's expression seemed to stop her. Her shoulders drooped, and she sagged against my mother's bracing arm.

With a curt bow, the Earl was gone. Mother guided Lucille toward a divan beneath one of the windows, which left Olivia by herself on the settee. The girl was clearly in a state of shock. Father and I glanced at each other, but it wasn't our place to offer comfort. Just when I thought I could stand it no longer, an audible whimper escaped her, breaking Charles from his trance.

He got up from his chair and went over to sit beside her. “Forget about him,” he said, awkwardly patting her knee. “You're better off without him if you ask me. I never could stand the man.”

“I don't care about the Earl,” she said, shaking her head, “but what's going to become of me? Oh, Father, I—” She stopped, looking stricken.

He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her against him. “I have always been your father, Olivia, and I always will be. That's one thing you need never question.” He looked up at me. “All right, Doctor,” he said, already taking charge, “tell me how we're going to beat this thing. Money, as I'm sure you're aware, is no object.”

“Well, there are things we can do to ameliorate her symptoms,” I said slowly, “and to make her more comfortable as the condition progresses. But there is no cure, as of yet.”

Olivia's hand rose to her throat.

“Then I'll find one,” Charles said, squeezing her shoulders more tightly, barely missing a beat. “Hugh,” he asked my father, “what's the name of that fellow you think so much of at the medical lab?”

“Tim Murdoch?” Father replied.

“That's the one.” Charles turned toward the forward compartments. “Billings!” he shouted. “Tell them to uncouple the car. We're staying here!” He turned back to Father. “Call Murdoch and tell him to meet us first thing tomorrow at the lab. We'll need to get ahold of this Huntington fellow too. Genevieve, do you know where he can be reached?”

“He's in town right now, staying at the Fifth Avenue Hotel.” I wasn't about to discourage him. Perhaps science alone hadn't yet been able to come up with a cure, but science, money, and love together? It was a powerful combination.

I stayed for a few more minutes, listening to my mother croon to Lucille on the divan and Father and Charles lay out their plan of attack. My part here, however, was done. If anyone had more questions for me later, I would answer them. But I thought we'd all had enough truth for one day.

Leaving the car as I'd come in, I found the guests still clustered on the platform, no doubt hoping for more grist for the gossip mill. Their eager buzz of conversation came to a stop as I climbed down the steps from the observation deck. I paused at the bottom, chilled by their predatory stares.

Simon materialized beside me, offering his elbow. “It's a little stuffy in here, don't you think?” he asked. “Why don't we get some fresh air?”

I laid my hand gratefully on his arm, and he escorted me across the platform. The gawking guests fell away at our approach, some of the younger women, I observed, regarding Simon with considerable interest. “Careful,” I muttered under my breath. “They don't see many like you.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, but I noticed he wasn't looking back.

We continued through the gate, out of the annex, and into the waiting room, stopping only when we had reached a quiet spot away from the streaming foot traffic. “So how did she take it?” he finally asked me.

“You know, it's strange,” I told him, “but I think she already knew, in a way. Just as Dr. Huntington suggested. Now, at least, she has a clearer idea of what she's up against. And I think her parents are going to stand by her.”

He cocked his head, studying me. “And what about you?” he asked. “Are you all right?”

I considered his question carefully, putting it not only to my logical self, but to my other selves as well. “Yes,” I answered. “I believe I am.” Whatever came of my actions today, I had no regrets. I had done what my heart told me to—and that, I knew now, was the only authority that mattered.

Merging again with the flow of pedestrians, we returned to the entrance at the far side of the waiting room. “Where's Cleo?” I asked, peering through the open double doors of the entryway.

“Don't worry, she's fine. Paddy and Mike are watching out for her.”

“Paddy and Mike?” I remembered the two red-faced policemen who'd been trying to dismount him just a short while ago. “You're on a first-name basis already?”

He shrugged. “It turns out Mike has a cousin in need of a job—”

“And you just happen to know of one that needs filling,” I finished for him.

He smiled wryly. We looked at each other in silence, neither of us seeming to know what else to say.

“Well, I suppose I ought to get Cleo back to the stable before Oliver pops a cork,” Simon said finally.

“Yes, I suppose you should,” I agreed, although I didn't want him to go. I had a terrible feeling that if we said good-bye now, it might be for the last time.

“Can we offer you a lift?”

I laughed. “I think I'll take the El this time. I have to be at Eliza's by four o'clock.”

He nodded. “How is she faring?”

“She's been through a lot,” I said simply. “But I think she's going to be all right.”

The awkward silence returned. Reluctantly, I extended my hand. “Thank you, Simon. For everything.”

He hesitated. Although he'd gotten better at concealing his emotions over the years, I thought I glimpsed something in his eyes that I recognized from long ago. “Good-bye, Genna,” he said at last, shaking my hand. “You take care of yourself.” He turned and started out through the vestibule.

I watched him go, feeling as if all the air in the room was leaving with him. So that was that. He would return to his life, and I would return to mine. Which was exactly as it should be. All the reasons I'd told myself we shouldn't be together still held true.

And yet, as I watched him walk away, those reasons seemed to dissolve and float into the ether. I couldn't do it. I didn't care if it made sense, or what anyone else might think; I wasn't going to let him go a second time. “Simon, wait!”

He turned.

Running up to him, I grasped his face between both hands and kissed him full on the mouth.

He pulled my hands away. “What are you doing?” he asked gruffly.

His lips were surprisingly, deliciously familiar. “Kissing you,” I answered with my eyes still shut, savoring the taste of him.

“I got that part. But why?”

I opened my eyes reluctantly. It was a good question. Though I had no doubts at all about my feelings for Simon, I wasn't quite sure what I meant to do with them. It seemed as though I was only beginning to know myself; I didn't want to have to try to change into whatever he—or anyone else—wanted me to be.

“You don't want to start something you can't finish,” he said when I didn't answer.

I felt a moment of panic, but calmed again as I looked into his steady eyes. I didn't know if we could beat the odds, or if we'd only end up hating each other. But I was willing to find out. “I thought—I thought we might just take it one step at a time.”

A smile played over his lips, as he recognized the advice he'd given me after the ball. “Well, I don't suppose I can argue with that, now can I?”

“I don't see how,” I said, shaking my head.

His face grew serious. “So long as you understand that once I've decided a thing's worth having, I don't generally stop until it's mine.”

I saw it for certain, then, in his eyes: the same mix of desire and self-restraint that had melted me like caramel that night in the stable, so many moons ago. “Point taken,” I said thickly.

He tipped his head. “I guess I'll be seeing you, then.” He backed away, holding me in his sights with a fixity of expression that made my whole body flush, before he turned and walked out the door.

Grinning idiotically, I floated back to the east side of the station and out to the street, emerging to find that the storm hadn't abated at all. Snow had been falling faster than people or vehicles could trample it down, painting everything a pristine white. The whole world, I thought, looked brand-new. I tilted back my head, letting the fat flakes melt on my skin, feeling the tensions of the past weeks release their hold.

I gazed up at the station's round turrets, which had replaced the original mansard towers only a few years before. Soon, the whole building was going to be demolished so that a more modern terminal could replace it. Just as horse-drawn trains had been replaced by steam locomotives, and as electric engines were now replacing them. And it wasn't just the train station; the whole city was in perpetual flux, constantly shedding the old to bring in the new, thereby keeping itself alive.

I was going to do the same, I decided. Wasn't that what we were here for, after all? To reinvent ourselves each waking moment, through the risks we took and the choices we made? I thought of the parts of Elizabeth's fractured self, consigned to play the same limited roles day after day, unable to survive on their own precisely because of their inability to learn and adapt. But I was not so confined; I could choose not to listen to the external voice of authority, or to an echo from my past. It was up to me. This was my game, and I was going to play it from this moment on. I started up the sidewalk, crunching new snow under my shoes. At the intersection, I turned to look back. My footprints were the only marks in the snow. Fresh tracks, leading to a new future. Whatever future I chose.

Sunday morning, one week later, I started out early for the church mission. Four days of blazing sunshine had melted off the record snowfall dropped by the storm, leaving the sidewalks steam-cleaned. I walked east with a light step, enjoying the faint scent of beer that floated in the air, sweet and nutty as a hazelnut crisp. Every now and then, I patted the bulge in my book bag, part of the proceeds from the sale of Grandfather's stock, thinking of the office I was planning to lease. It was in a good location, offered for a reasonable rent, and just ten blocks south of my home. I'd happened past the realtor's sign the day before and had already contacted him by telephone. We'd arranged to meet after class so that I could take a closer look.

The stock proceeds would be sufficient to cover the rental for quite some time, if necessary, until I had built up a paying clientele. Once that happened, I planned to rent one of the residential apartments above the office as well and set up housekeeping on my own. I hoped this moment would arrive sooner rather than later, as I had a hankering to be out on my own, and suspected that my parents would be too busy in the upcoming months to notice my absence. Father had agreed to oversee a research project for Charles Fiske, testing the relative efficacy of chloral hydrate, valerian, and belladonna in the treatment of Huntington's chorea, using volunteers supplied by Dr. Huntington, while Mother would be taking over as head of the garden committee when Lucille traveled to Germany to investigate the merits of the promising antispasmodic, benzene.

Though the chances of discovering a cure in time to help Olivia were admittedly slim, I wasn't above praying for a miracle. And not only for Olivia; Professor Bogard and I could use all the help we could get, weaving a unified personality out of Elizabeth Miner's many selves. Though it was a daunting goal, Eliza was responding well in our sessions, and it was deeply rewarding to see her old wounds starting to heal. On a more mundane level, I was hoping that my work with Eliza would take my mind off of Simon. He'd left for Saratoga the previous morning to put things in order at his new stable, and despite the harrowing tenor of our last few encounters, I was already longing for his return. I wasn't sure which had been more nerve-racking: having him to lunch and watching Father choke with the effort at being civil, or working at the Tammany winter fireworks festival a few days later, where I'd volunteered to serve cider and fried donuts—and where the way he'd kept looking at me from his perch on the fire truck had made me spill more cider than I served.

When I arrived at the parish hall, little Fiala Petrikova was waiting for me in the hallway. “It's finished,” she said, holding up a stack of typewritten pages.

“All of it? Already?” I'd persuaded the professor to hire Fiala to type up our research papers, instead of his usual service. With lessons from the Reverend's secretary and the use of an old church machine, she was quickly becoming a first-rate typist, making up in dedication what she still lacked in speed. In fact, I was having trouble churning out drafts quickly enough. Soon, she'd be earning more from typing than she ever had from rolling cigars. I hoped that Milka would eventually follow in her big sister's footsteps, and that both girls could leave the cigar tenements behind.

I gave Fiala another installment, telling her I'd be by soon with more medicine for her mother, and descended the parish hall steps to the basement. I'd given myself ten extra minutes to straighten up the room and review my notes. But as I walked toward the wood partition, I could hear conversation and laughter on the other side. Rounding the partition's edge, I discovered that all of my patients had already arrived.

I shook my watch, holding it up to my ear. “Am I late? Or are you all early?”

“You're not late,” said Anna. She was wearing green silk trousers under a wide-sleeved blouse, with a pair of red Chinese slippers. There were knitting needles in her hands and a ball of yellow yarn at her feet.

“I see you've brought some busywork,” I remarked as I spread my notes across my desk.

“I thought I might as well do something useful if we're going to have to listen to another of your boring lectures,” she replied, drawing a titter from Margaret.

“If you don't like my lectures,” I asked her curiously, “why are you here?”

She shrugged, looping the yarn around the tip of her needle. “I heard they were serving shepherd's pie for lunch.”

This time, Margaret laughed outright. Dr. Cassell's warning against allowing patient alliances rang faintly in my mind. I felt disinclined to do anything about it, however, for I was frankly too pleased to hear Margaret laugh. “I think you might find today's lecture particularly relevant,” I told them. “I'm going to talk about techniques for suppressing unhappy thoughts.”

“Now there's an unhappy thought,” murmured Anna.

I was about to protest that enough was enough when I realized that all of them were either smiling in agreement, or trying not to. Something was going on here, something I ought to pay attention to. I sat back. “Doesn't anybody want to hear the lecture?”

They glanced at each other. “It's not that I don't want to hear what you have to say,” Florence ventured.

“What is it, then?”

“It's just that I'd like a chance to talk about it more. Like what you said last time, about it being normal to feel angry. I've been wanting to ask…” She stopped, glancing at the others. “What about feeling glad? Is that all right?”

Before I could respond, Margaret rushed in to confess, “I was glad when my mother passed; I just couldn't help it. I hardly even recognized her by the end.”

Why, I wondered, after being so reticent to discuss their feelings in the past, were they so eager to share them here? Why should they find it easier to reveal to virtual strangers what they hadn't been able to talk about with their families and closest friends? I paused with my hand on my notes, struck by my own question. Perhaps, I thought, because it was only here, among others who'd been through a similar ordeal, that they felt safe enough to talk. I'd experienced it myself the first time the group had assembled, even though I was their leader and of necessity set apart: a sense of finding my level, of belonging here, though I'd hardly set eyes on the others before.

I slowly sat back, intrigued by the implications. I'd been taught that the patients' relentless attempts to communicate, whether in or out of class, were disruptive and should be discouraged; but maybe we doctors had been missing something, in our zeal to impart healing from above. Maybe the empathic response of the group was, in fact, the secret ingredient that made the class therapy work.

I remembered one of Cassell's patients, an “unreachable” veteran of the Cuban war, who'd spoken for the first time in seven years after one of his classmates, another soldier, hummed “A Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight” during their session. Cassell learned later that the tune had been the soldiers' battle song. This simple communication between two survivors had apparently accomplished what no amount of doctor's lecturing or cajoling could do. I was reminded of the billions of cells in a human body, each with its own unique purpose, acting together to make possible the miracle of life—or of the distinct selves within each one of us that, as Professor Bogard had pointed out, when operating in harmony made us the richly complex people we were. Perhaps healing could be a group effort as well. Perhaps, if we worked together, the whole of our understanding could exceed that of our parts.

“Doctor?” asked Anna.

I looked up. “Yes?”

“Aren't you going to start your lecture?”

I looked back at my notes. “No,” I said slowly, “I don't think I am.” I picked up the notes, lifted them over the side of my desk, and dropped them into the trash can.

Her eyebrows arched in surprise. “What are we going to do, then?”

I stood. “Well, we could start by moving our chairs into a circle,” I said, carrying my chair in front of my desk. Several more eyebrows rose in question, but they all got up and did as I proposed.

“There, that's better.” I sat down, and they followed suit. Here in this room, I decided, every woman would have a voice. Here we would learn from each other's insights, and build on each other's strengths. And who knew where that might lead? I suddenly envisioned a whole army of women, helping themselves as they helped each other, lifting each other like seedlings toward the sun.

“Now what?” Margaret asked.

I smiled. “To tell you the truth, I'm not really sure. What do you say we just play it by ear?”