Garden of Lies (30 page)

her throat jumping wildly, her stomach clenched.

He pointed on the films to two grayish areas where the dye had not penetrated. “As you can

see, there’s rather extensive scarring in both tubes. This would make conception ... well, let’s just

say ... unlikely. At some point in the future you might wish to consider surgery. But—” he

shrugged, “as you probably know, the results in that field have been far from promising.”

Did he mean no children? Ever? No ... that can’t be ... oh God, no. ...

Rachel felt lightheaded, as if somehow she had a fever again. She stared at Dolenz, riveted by a

large mole on his neck from which three stiff hairs sprouted. She had to get away from those X

rays with their murky patches, and from whatever it was he was saying. So she stared at the mole,

wondering why a man with the power to wipe out a whole part of her life hadn’t thought to snip

those disgusting hairs.

“I’m sorry,” he went on, “I wish I could have been more encouraging. But in these cases I

always find it’s best to be direct ... so as not to ... ah, raise expectations. Then you know which

cards you’re holding, so to speak. You can always adopt, that is, if your husband—”

[172] Rachel extended her hand in a brisk handshake, thanking him, putting an end to his

fumbling attempts to brighten her bleak future.

She made it outside, holding herself very erect, spine stiff, chin thrust up, as if by remaining

totally vertical she might somehow prevent this hotness in her chest from spilling over. Stopping

only for traffic lights, she walked the sixty blocks downtown to her apartment like a zombie, not

slowing even when she felt blisters forming on her heels, or when rain began pelting her. Shortly

past dark, her hair in wet tangles, her coat nearly soaked through, she reached home.

She slumped down in the wicker chair in the living room, not bothering to take off her sodden

coat. Now she felt cold. But dry clothes or any number of blankets, she knew, wouldn’t take away

this coldness, like a lump of ice in her stomach.

No children ... no babies ... oh God, what have I done? ...

She clapped her hands over her face.

Oh, if only Kay were here,
she thought,
she’d hug me and make me a pot of tea, and we’d talk

and talk, until maybe I could find some way of dealing with this.

But no Kay now, she was gone, three whole weeks already ... Vietnam, a world away. ...

Rachel dropped her hands from her cheeks, curling them into fists.
Damn it, no, I will not sit

here feeling sorry for myself. All right, it happened, but I’m not dead ... Lord, how could I be? ...

not with this pain in me.

I have to get out of here,
she told herself.
A complete change. Maybe I should be with Kay.

They need doctors in Vietnam. And right now Kay probably needs me as much as I need her.

Then I could forget this, be someplace where I won’t have time to think about it. ...

The phone was ringing.

Let it ring. She didn’t want to talk to anyone now. Whoever it was, let them call back tonight,

tomorrow.

But the phone kept ringing, on and on and on. ...

Rachel dragged herself to her feet.

“Hello?”

“Rachel, thank goodness, I nearly gave up on you!” Mama’s voice, clear and bright, rang like

crystal goblets chiming against each other in a toast.

[173] Hearing her silvery voice, Rachel felt suddenly so vulnerable, her misery shamefully

exposed, like when she was twelve and Mama came upon her crying because that creep Will

Sperry had torn up the valentine she’d given him at school. Mama’s sympathy had hurt her more

than Will Sperry’s cruelty. No, she could not stand anyone pitying her, and especially not Mama.

And Mama, think how she would suffer, too—no grandchildren to baby-sit, to play with and

spoil. No, Mama was far better off not knowing. Rachel couldn’t bear the thought of her mother’s

misery on top of her own.

“Sorry, I was just letting myself in,” Rachel lied. “Listen, Mama, can I call you back? This ER

rotation keeps me on the run all day long, and I’m really beat. What I’m really dying to do right

now is jump in the shower.”

“I’ll only keep you a minute,” Sylvie chirped. “It’s about tomorrow; we’ll be sending the car

for you at ten-thirty. That should give us just enough time to get to Cold Spring by twelve, even if

there is a bit of traffic.”

What on earth? Cold Spring ... tomorrow, at twelve? Rachel wracked her brain to make sense

of it.

“Oh dear, you haven’t forgotten, have you?” Sylvie, sounding dismayed, seemed to read her

mind.

“Of course not, how could I forget—” She paused, and in her consternation began to giggle.

“Mason. Mason Gold’s wedding,” Mama prompted, laughing a little herself. “Rachel, honestly,

don’t you think about anything but medicine these days? Now don’t tell me you haven’t

something nice to wear or I’ll pop over this very instant and kidnap you, march you straight over

to Saks.”

Oh God, yes. The handwritten invitation she’d gotten last month—it had struck her as a bit

weird, not the stiff formal card she would have expected. She’d been intrigued, and thought how

nice it would be to see Mason again, and meet this girl he was marrying. Then she’d stuck the

invitation in a drawer somewhere, and it had apparently slipped her mind. Lord, if Mama hadn’t

called she would have forgotten completely.

Yes, it would be great to see Mason again. Rachel winced, remembering Mason’s twenty-first

birthday party, and the two of [174] them grappling clumsily on the carpet of his father’s suite at

the Pierre. And afterwards, how solicitous he’d been, so attentive, trying to help her get dressed,

then guiding her out to the elevator as if she were a barely ambulatory elderly aunt. And tongue-

tied, too, as if they were on a blind date, as if they hadn’t known each other a million years. She

was sure she’d lost him forever as her friend, her childhood buddy. But then, back at the party,

Rachel, in desperation, had grabbed a handful of chipped ice and stuck it down the back of his

pants. Mason had yelped, danced around a bit, and called her a sneaky bitch, a brat, a rotten little

creep. They’d been friends again ever since.

“... unless you’d rather make it Bloomingdale’s,” Mama was going on.

Shopping? God, that’s all she needed. No, she’d dig something out of her closet.

“Don’t worry, Mama, I have the perfect outfit.”

“Ten-thirty then,” Sylvie said and sighed. “And for heaven’s sake, darling,
do
remember to

wear stockings and a slip. The last time you wore a dress, I could see straight through it every

time you stood with your back to the light.”

Rachel, feeling a prickle of exasperation, couldn’t help wondering if this was the same Sylvie

to whom she’d felt so close, so in tune, when she’d confided to her about being pregnant.

“Oh, Mama, please—yes, okay, fine, I’ll wear a slip, ten slips, if that will make you happy.”

Then the humor in it struck her, and she smiled. “Well, at least you’re easy to please. Mama, I

know you’d die happy just so long as I always wore clean underwear, and put paper on strange

toilet seats, and crossed my legs at the ankles whenever I sat down. Mama, I love you. And,

Mama, listen, thanks for—”

For what?
Yes, for also knowing what really matters ... for being with me and for me when it

counts ... when I need you.

Sylvie had not fallen apart when Rachel told her about the abortion. No crying, or fussing, or

bitter accusations. She had just hugged Rachel, crushing her almost, and said, “I love you,

darling, and I’ll always love you, no matter what.”

“Thanks for what?” Sylvie asked.

[175] A lump rose in Rachel’s throat, but she swallowed it. “Oh, nothing. Just thanks. See you

tomorrow at ten-thirty.”

Mason Gold’s wedding was not what Rachel had expected.

She had anticipated a synagogue smothered in lush floral arrangements, bridesmaids wearing

matching chiffon dresses with puff sleeves, a bride and groom decked in white satin and tails like

the ones on wedding cakes.

And here she sat with her parents, inside this big old greenhouse on top of a grassy hill

overlooking the Hudson, watching two hippies promise to love, honor, but not obey each other.

Mason Gold a hippie! Unbelievable. Out of sight.

True, she hadn’t seen him in a couple of years ... but now she hardly recognized him. A tall,

ponytailed stranger in a flowing white caftan and sandals. The bride wore a matching kaftan, her

long straight black hair threaded with tiny wild daisies. No
huppak.
They stood instead beneath a

basket of hanging begonias, its meaty white blossoms brushing the tops of their heads, a scatter of

fallen petals at their feet.

Rachel smiled, and thought,
Good for you, Mason. You managed to break out of frozen food

after all.

She glanced about. Long plywood tables, laden with flats of seedlings and small plants in clay

pots, had been pushed against the steamy glass walls to make room for the fifty or so folding

chairs. She spotted the Golds, seated in the first row, next to a tub of zinnias. Evelyn, still

Mama’s closest friend, sitting ramrod straight and wearing a brave, flash-frozen smile. Rachel

noticed that the heels of her pink pumps, dyed to match her pale pink suit, were muddy from the

trek up the soggy slope. Her eyes looked puffy and red, as if she’d been crying. Beside her, Ira

Gold, plump and bald, darted bewildered glances about as if at any moment he expected to see

Alan Funt pop out from behind a tubbed tree to announce they were on “Candid Camera.” This

was not a wedding the Golds had had a hand in planning ... or could even have dreamed of in

their worst nightmares.

Rachel could easily pick out the Golds’ relatives and friends ... they all looked uncomfortable,

shifting about in their chairs, [176] studying their laps, exchanging embarrassed looks. But not

Mama, so elegant in a pale blue cashmere suit—she simply looked bemused. Rachel felt proud of

her for that.

Rachel strained to hear the minister, a soft-spoken bearded man who seemed sincere and was

wearing, happily for the Golds’ sake, a suit and tie. He was reading aloud the vows Mason and

Shannon—her name
was
Shannon, wasn’t it? Yes, something like that—had written together.

Something about love being free as an eagle ... and circles within circles. Nice, and not
too
sappy.

Rachel felt tears welling in her eyes. God, was she really crying? Maybe it was the way Mason

was looking at his bride, gazing at her with such tenderness. They were totally absorbed in each

another, they could have been standing in a sinking rowboat and not have noticed. David had

never once looked at her that way.

Mason’s friends (who else could they be?)—long-haired boys in jeans and loose shirts—sat in

a cluster near the front. The girls, four or five of them, all had long hair parted down the middle,

and plain scrubbed faces. One, with straggly blond hair, reminded her of the Before pictures in

those Tame Creme Rinse commercials. Several others were nodding dreamily, and looked pretty

spaced out. What else did they grow up here in this greenhouse besides flowers?

Mason was slipping a ring on his bride’s finger, and now, his face glowing and tremulous with

emotion, he was bending down to kiss her. A boy straddling an overturned clay tub, cradling a

guitar on his lap, began to play Cat Stevens’ “Moonshadow.” Rachel found herself humming

along, caught up in the joy of the moment.

A few minutes later, everyone began filing out, Mason and Shannon first, their friends

crowding about them, grinning, laughing, everyone hugging one another.

The older people hung back, muttering their polite, strained congratulations to the Golds.

Rachel noticed that Ira Gold was scowling as another short bald man who looked like a brother or

a cousin patted him sympathetically on the shoulder.

Across the chairs, Rachel’s eye caught Gerald’s, and they both smiled.
Daddy is enjoying

this ... Ira taken down a notch or two ... Daddy always did think he was a bit of a showoff.

Now she was picking her way downhill, hobbling in her high heels around the gopher holes

and rocks. How ironic that she actually [177] had worried whether she’d be dressed up enough in

this white turtleneck sweater and suede skirt.

In the funky farmhouse, refreshments were set up on a round oak table. Gallons of fresh-

pressed apple cider, healthy-looking salads sprinkled with sunflower seeds and sprouts, whole-

meal breads, crocks of sweet butter and farmer’s cheese, crusty vegetarian casseroles.

Later, in the big old-fashioned kitchen, with its Hoosier cabinets and walk-in pantry, Rachel

finally managed to corner Mason alone. “Is all this for real?” she asked. “I can’t believe it’s you.

What happened to Yale, to J. Press, to the Street?”

“Ever tried celery sticks with fresh-ground peanut butter?” He grabbed one off a chipped plate

on the sloping counter, and stuck it in her mouth. He grinned, watching her try to chew.

“Cheyenne makes them. At first I didn’t like the stuff she eats, but she turned me around.”