Walter Converse prowled the hallway outside the staff lounge. If there was one thing he despised, it was waiting, but he knew that Diller stopped in here a few times a day for a cup of coffee and an appreciative look at the nurses. So Walter stalked back and forth, always keeping one gloomy eye on the lounge doorway, and as he paced, he thought about his daughter.
It was the greatest disappointment of his life that Sharlie had been born malformed. Well, not malformed exactly, but defective, even if the defect was someplace where nobody could see it. If she'd emerged from Margaret's cold body missing an arm or a leg or with her face all twisted and grotesque like some of the children Walter had seen, well, he was a strong man, but he didn't know if he could have put up with that.
He'd been grateful she was a girl. Any child of his would end up extraordinary, he'd see to that, and an extraordinary woman was far more interesting than an extraordinary man. Look at his mother, for instance.
But when they told him about Sharlie's heart just an hour after the elation of her birth, Walter had been crushed. Then furious: furious with Godâfor which he'd later asked and been granted forgivenessâfurious with the medical profession, furious with the poor frail infant herself, and particularly furious with Margaret. Could she never do anything right? The incredible incompetence of the woman. She had looked up at him from her hospital bed with such guilt, asking him with her eyes to forgive her for producing such a poor specimen of a baby. She had wanted to please him, he knew that. So he forced the anger back down inside, patted her hand, and pounded his rage out on the squash court and in his conferences with specialists in New York and Minnesota and Houston and just about every place in between.
Sure enough, in Walter's obsession to learn all there was to know about his baby's condition, he tracked down a genetic disorder in Margaret's family that no one had ever spoken about because no one in that tight-ass, hot-shot bunch ever talked about things that happened in the, God forbid,
body.
But what, he wanted to know, was the point of blue blood if it pumped in and out of a fucked-up heart?
So while Margaret languished, grief-stricken and guilty, Walter set about to cure his daughter, lavishing time and money on the project as if there were no Converse & Mackin and no stock market to occupy his active days.
Maybe she wasn't as lively as the other babies in the nursery, and maybe her skin had a slightly bluish tinge, but when he held the baby Charlotte, she seemed so beautiful to him, so soft and so perfect on the outside that you'd never know. When he held her like that, he made himself a fierce promise to give her the life he'd dreamed about during all those years of waiting for Margaret to produce.
His eyes snapped to the lounge doorway as someone in surgical gear went inside. But no, it wasn't Diller. Walter began his pacing again, but more slowly now. Suddenly he realized that he was beginning to get discouraged. Here was Sharlie, twenty-six years old and basically an invalid. There had been so many disappointments, so many failed techniques, some so esoteric they were probably illegal, like the one where they blew carbon dioxide gas into the heart chamber through a tube. But each new test confirmed what the last one had indicated: Corrective surgery might repair Sharlie's heart, but the risks were prohibitive.
After each new hope dissolved, Walter had always managed to replenish his superhuman store of energy and confidence. But today he felt the supply dwindling. As he looked toward the future, there was a kernel of dread mixed with the faith he'd kept alive all these years, and kept alive in his wife and daughter, too.
In the early days he'd pushed hard for surgery but couldn't find anybody courageous enough to try a triple valve replacement on Sharlie. Goddammit, he wanted to cut her open and perform the frigging operation himself. And now, with each day of increased suffering, he became more convinced that a heart transplant was the only possible solution. What were the alternatives? Watch Sharlie disintegrate week by week, her spirit shattered like her shattered heart? Wait like Sharlie for the injection that came every now and then to ease the merciless, unremitting pain? Pretty soon the ever-narrowing slice of bearable time would disappear altogether, and that left only the choice of prolonging a tortured life or tossing out the pill bottles and letting her go.
He came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the sterile hall. God forgive me, he thought. Walter Converse considering the willful destruction of his own child. Mother, where are all your answers now?
Margaret tried to keep the querulous tone out of her voice, knowing it was unattractive. One had to make allowances for sick people, but considering Sharlie's upbringing, it amazed her that sometimes she had to be pressed to do the correct thing.
“But he picked you up off the street, dear,” she said. “After all, we've read about people who've been left bleeding on the pavement to die because nobody wanted to get involved.”
Sharlie, propped up in bed today, hair combed, if not exactly clean, closed her eyes.
“All right. Ask them to put a phone in here, and I'll do it this afternoon.”
Margaret nodded, restraining herself from thanking Sharlie when she was only doing what was right.
“I'm sure he'll be glad to hear from you. Such a thoughtful young man, calling so often to inquire how you are.”
Sharlie didn't respond. After a moment Margaret rose.
“Well ⦠I think I'll go see about that telephone.”
She went out, and both women felt relieved to have some time apart. Sharlie was accustomed to abbreviated hospital visits and had often noticed callers, her own, back when she'd had some, and other people's, sneaking looks at their watches after twenty minutes in hopes that they'd stayed a respectable amount of time. Except for Agony Jones, of course, who hung around hour after hour, sitting on the beds and making a nuisance of himself.
She picked up a magazine from the bedside table.
Cosmopolitan.
Her mother had brought it as a kind of joke, since Sharlie would sometimes entertain them both by reading the advice columns out loud. “How to catch a man on the crosstown bus, by the water cooler, in Paley Park, in the coronary care unit, on the operating table.â¦
Don't lose this made-in-heaven opportunity, girls. Those green hospital gowns can be so
appealing,
and all those
doctors
âhovering around for the sole purpose of taking care of poor frail delicate you. We suggest a little Poor-Circulation Blue eye shadow and Near-Death makeup base. Looks so
compelling
under the operating-room lights. And by all means, don't neglect your body. Here's your perfect chance to show off what you've got without a hint of exhibitionism (
subtle
is
sexy),
particularly if you're fortunate enough to undergo open-heart surgery. Do your own preop prep by toning those pectoral muscles (
see exercises on page fifty-four),
or, in the event of hysterectomy, we recommend Clairol's new Pubic Down to make that forbidden fur shiny and kitten soft.⦔
Sharlie wondered if it were possible to donate one's body to Madison Avenue instead of to some stuffy medical research center. She thought she might enjoy modeling for the full-page ad on the back of
The New York Times
âlying flat on a shiny aluminum table, draped with a sheet, her cold, dead face impeccably groomed.
If you want to reach me, you'll find me in the morgue. I guess you could say I'm that
Cosmopolitan
girl.â¦
Sharlie shook her head and tried to free it of the macabre image.
“Hey, I got you a phone. A Princess for a princess.” Nurse Ramón Rodriguez stood in the doorway. Sharlie smiled at him as he brought the telephone over to the bedside table and bent to plug it in. He glanced at the magazine on Sharlie's lap. The page was open to a picture of Martina Schiller, this year's notion of ideal beautyâa blinding array of white teeth and carefully tousled thick blond mane. Nurse Rodriguez looked at Sharlie's limp hair.
“Hey, Charlie, you wan' I give you a shampoo today?”
Sharlie smoothed a strand behind her ear, grimacing at the lank texture.
“I guess you'd better before the mice move in. Thanks.”
Nurse Rodriguez picked up the receiver, listened for the dial tone, then nodded.
“It's okay. I be back later with my rollin' beauty store.”
Sharlie glanced wistfully at Martina Schiller.
“Ahh,” Ramón said, catching her at it. “You don' wanna look like
that
chick, man. She's
ice.
You got more woman in you
any
day.”
Sharlie watched him walk to the door, his small body jaunty, and, dressed in the sterile white uniform, impertinent somehow. He waved at her, and she shut her eyes, exhausted from the conversation and from the meanderings of her own imagination. Agony Jones had spread himself all over the room like a thick layer of foul smoke. If only somebody would rearrange the schedule so that for one day all six hours of drugged relief came at a stretch. She'd gladly suffer the despised company of Agony Jones for the eighteen searing hours that would follow.
Nurse Rodriguez had washed her hair, and it fell all shiny and soft to her shoulders. She'd had her injection and wouldn't be this comfortable again for another four hours. She glanced at the phone squatting reproachfully on her bedside table. The time had come.
She'd gotten so far as to put her hand on the receiver, even dialed a few digits. But then she panicked and hung up. What was he like anyway, this Brian Morgan? She had vague memories of a quiet voice and a long, lean arm, but there was no face. He'd disappeared by the time her parents got to the hospital that evening. Her mother said that over the phone he sounded like “a fine young man.” How does one talk to a fine young man these days? It'd been a long time since she'd talked with anyone other than her parents and the staff at Saint Joe's except to say, “Good morning,” or “Rain again,” to the occasional cab driver. Maybe she'd better take a closer look at
Cosmo
before she dialed.
Coward, coward.
She grabbed the phone, dialed fiercely, and listened to the ring, gripping the receiver until her hand ached.
A voice answered, the words rushing together in a barely coherent stream. “BarbaraâKaye'sâofficeâgoodâafternoon.”
Sharlie gave her name and asked for Mr. Morgan in her best imitation of a nonterrified person. The voice sang again, “What is this in regard to, please?”
With
regard to, thought Sharlie, her face reddening and a menacing thump sounding in her chest.
Oh Lord, this is not good for me.
“It's ⦠uh ⦠a personal matter,” she stammered.
The guy saved my life. Is that personal enough for you, madam?
“Hello.”
That was the voice. Sharlie remembered it now.
“Is this the actual Charlotte Converse in person?”
“Yes,” Sharlie answered. “I ⦠uh ⦔ Oh, damn, she thought, pull yourself together. “I called to thank you for saving my life.”
Her voice sounded prissy even in her own ears, and she heard Brian Morgan laugh.
“Think nothing of it,” he said. “When can I come see you?”
“What?” she said.
Oh, clever.
“I've got something of yours. At least I think they fell out of your shopping bag. A pair of binoculars?”
“Oh, you mean the opera glasses,” she said.
“That's what happens when you make snap judgments,” he went on, and she could hear the amusement in his voice. “You passed out there on the sidewalk with these glasses by your hand, and I figured, âOf course, a pregnant birdwatcher.'”
This time Sharlie laughed, an unfamiliar sensation, like bubbles in her throat.
“It's a damn good thing I saw your cardiac alert bracelet,” he said, and then Sharlie heard an intercom buzzer sound in the background. Brian's voice changed tempo, speeding up.
“Listen, my appointment's here. What're your visiting hours?”
“Noon until eight, but ⦔
“Fine, I'll stop by around six. 'Bye.”
The phone clicked, and he was gone.
But,
thought Sharlie.
But â¦
She felt a familiar sense of powerlessness in the presence of a personality stronger than her own. I'd make a great candidate for torture, she thought. Some guy in a leather jacket would stand over her and say (firmly, of course), “All right, lady, you know the names of all the spies in the Upper East Side network. I want this information, and I'll get it from you one way or the other,” and she'd just give him a little trembly smile and say, “Oh, well
sure
⦠if it means that much to you.⦔
Brian Morgan didn't sound like the leather jacket type. Maybe he's a CPA, she thought What could be scary about a CPA? She imagined a soft, round face perched atop a rather baggy three-piece suit.
Then suddenly the shadowy image twisted, like the distorted reflection in a fun house mirror. The pain had caught her unaware this time, and she moaned aloud involuntarily. At least no one had heard her. Maybe she was losing her discipline. She thought of her father's description of T. E. Lawrence holding his hand in a flame and explaining that the trick wasn't in somehow avoiding the pain, it was in not minding it. Her father found this heroic, and she always thought she had, too, until she'd heard the story applied to Gordon Liddy. Where were the human idols to cling to for inspiration in the bad times? She'd long ago given up on God. Convinced by a couple of spectacular earthquakes and news photos of starving children, she'd decided that if he existed at all, he was either a pathetic, inept milksop or a raging sadist. In any case, he wasn't of any use to her.
The pain now burned and twisted like a spit plunged through her chest, and she was turning, turning. Sweat spilled down her forehead, rushing in hot rivers into her hair and ears. She lay there, silent and tormented, for half an hour, her pillow growing soggy beneath her head.
Nurse Rodriguez's blurred face appeared above her left shoulder. She heard his voice now, disembodied.
“Oh, Charlie ⦔ He was gone, but soon reappeared.
“It's early, sweetheart, but I won' tell nobody if you don'.” The tiny prick of the needle released from Sharlie a cry that was so deep it seemed to rise up from underground, far below the deepest level of the hospital, a cry of archetypal protest, and in its presence, Rodriguez felt the impulse to kneel and cross himself. He watched her, transfixed. After a moment the struggle ceased and her face, masklike, stilled.
Sharlie woke up disoriented, but with the pain subdued and murmuring like muddled voices in a faraway room. She looked at the clock with fuzzy awareness of an important assignment ahead of her. Suddenly she remembered Brian Morgan. If he showed up as threatened, he'd be in this very room in half an hour. After a bad session with pain, Sharlie felt like a piece of damp gray string and supposed she was just about as attractive. She reached for the mirror to check the damage.
Not too bad, she thought, relieved. Her hair, silky and almost black (“fireplace soot,” she called it), haloed her face and neck in soft dark shadows. Her skin, always pale and fine-grained, seemed almost translucent now. And the eyes stared back at her, dark stars. She put the mirror down quickly, avoiding the reflection of that secret part of her that sometimes gazed back from the glass.
There was a rattling and clinking at the door, and a nurse's aide appeared, pushing the dinner trolly. No matter what lurked beneath those aluminum tins, the odor was always the same: mashed potatoes and gravyâthat prosaic, sturdy, comforting smell. Sharlie was surprised to discover that she was hungry, and started on her veal loaf. She wanted to finish before Brian Morgan arrived, embarrassed to be caught eating in front of him, a stranger, the business of chewing and swallowing seeming crass somehow, like going to the bathroom.
But after three bites she was exhausted. She set down her fork and leaned back against the pillow, wishing someone would offer to feed her. When Brian Morgan arrives, she thought, I'll ask him to cut up my meat and mush my sherbet for me. He'd shown his chivalrous bent. Maybe he'd enjoy playing Florence Nightingale in drag.
She tried to relax and set about inhaling the fragrance from her dinner, hoping she'd soak in some of its nutritional value that way. When she opened her eyes, a young man stood in the doorway.