The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes (18 page)

It's Sunday and I'm home from a night out. A long night out. An all-night night out.

With Michael.

Yes, dear diary, you know what that means.

Yesterday was Saturday night and I managed to get away from headquarters for the evening. I told Michael I'd meet him somewhere if I could. We had dinner at the Roosevelt Grill in the Roosevelt Hotel on Madison Avenue. Fancy! It was very romantic, and Michael's eyes sparkled in the candlelight. I told him he shouldn't spend that kind of money, but he waved me off. Is he wealthy? I don't think so. I asked him where he lived, and he said, “Here and there, but tonight I have a room here.”

Uh-oh
, I thought. Very smooth. He'd planned it so we'd still have the rest of dinner to get through with something
unsaid
hovering over the table. And we both knew what that was. Needless to say, it created anticipation.

Well, that made me a little nervous, so I probably drank too much wine. At the end of dinner he asked me flat out if I'd like to share a bottle of champagne in his room.

I accepted. I couldn't help it. He was so handsome and exuded a certain strength and confidence I found very appealing. And I was a little drunk. And I—
wanted
it. So I followed him into the elevator and up to the 12th floor. His room was gorgeous, and the windows looked out over Midtown.

The champagne arrived and we each drank one glass on the couch. We had the second glass in the bedroom.

Once again, Michael didn't talk much. But, oh, my gosh, he didn't have to.

And that's all I have to say on the subject!

My mom is in the ICU of Northwest Community Hospital and so far she hasn't woken up. I'm worried sick, it's almost ten o'clock at night, and tomorrow is Thanksgiving.

I've tried calling Gina in New York, but she doesn't pick up. Her voice mail cheerily tells me, “Hi, this is Gina, leave a message!” The first time I simply told her to call me back. That was late this afternoon, after Maggie called me from the nursing home to let me know what had happened. I left work early and rushed to the hospital. Maggie told me she'd meet me there later, as she had to finish her shift and go back to her own office for a couple of hours. She said she already contacted Mom's primary care physician, Dr. Schneider.

I called Gina again just after seven and there was still no answer. That time I said her grandma was in the hospital and to please return the call. I just tried again, got the voice mail, and didn't leave a message. Where the hell was she? Probably out with friends, since it was the first night of their holiday. Juilliard had the rest of the week off, like everyone else. Who was she spending Thanksgiving with? She'd told me she'd be with “friends,” but I didn't know them.

Dr. Schneider spoke to me in the ICU waiting room. He introduced me to Dr. Kitanishi, an Asian woman in her forties who'd be handling Mom's case. “Your mother has suffered a serious stroke and is in a coma,” she told me. I swear I felt my stomach lurch when
I heard that. “But her vitals are strong and there's every indication she will emerge from the coma. We won't know what kind of damage there will be until she's awake. The CT scan revealed that she most likely had an arterial embolus that originated in the arterial tree. I don't think it came from her heart.”

“Wait, wait,” I said. “Better speak English.”

“I'm sorry. An embolus is a particle of something—it could be fat, air, a tiny piece of tissue that got in the bloodstream, or a part of a thrombus that broke off. The embolus travels through the arteries and either hits the heart or the brain to cause the stroke.”

“What's a thrombus?”

“A blood clot.”

“Okay.”

“Her records show your mother had a vasovagal syncope a couple of months ago.”

“Uh, yeah, she fainted.”

“That might have been an early symptom of a thrombus or embolus.”

I had to sit down, so both doctors sat across from me. Dr. Kitanishi continued. “We're doing more tests, but it's quite possible the embolus has dissipated, which will be a good thing. If not, then we have to find it. There are several ways of destroying it, and we'll cross that bridge if and when we locate it. More importantly, we must find the source of the embolus. Where it came from.”

I nodded like I was following her.

“Mr. Talbot, your mother has an old gunshot wound in her left shoulder as well as an old scar on her right shoulder that appears to have been made by a knife or other sharp object. Not only that, her body exhibits several scars and blemishes that must have resulted from an accident, I presume. Can you tell me how she got these wounds?”

There they were again, the tricky questions about Mom's health and past. Maggie asked them. Now Dr. Kitanishi. I immediately felt
the familiar ball of anxiety in my chest. Whenever I came face-to-face with Mom's history and had to reconcile it with the present, I freaked out.

Naturally, I lied. “She never told me how she got them. I don't have a clue.”

“She wasn't in the armed forces?”

“No.” I smiled nervously. “The doctor at the nursing home asked me the same thing.”

The woman stared at me. She must have been thinking—
how could her patient's son not know where such significant injuries came from?
Finally, she said, “Well, it's possible the embolus is a remnant of one of those old wounds.”

“Can I see her?”

“You can have a peek, but she
is
in a coma and won't respond. After that, I suggest you go home and we'll call you if there's any change.”

I had to ask. “Doctor—will she live?”

“I think so. Let's take it a day at a time, though. From what I can see, your mother is a very strong person. She must have kept very fit in her younger days, am I right?”

I nodded.

“That'll be in her favor. Do you have any other questions?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Carol and Ross enter the waiting room. They approached as if they were part of the family, which I really didn't appreciate. Carol was
once
a part of the family, and Ross never was.

“Not right now,” I answered the doctor. The three of us stood, and I shook hands with the two physicians. Then they left us alone.

“Martin, I'm so sorry,” Carol said. “How is she?”

I told her what the doc said. Carol listened, her brow furrowed, as she nodded with concern. When I finished, Ross spoke up. He's a lawyer and apparently a very rich one, in his sixties, well dressed, and a little too pompous for my taste.

“Martin, my own mother went through the same thing and she got through it with flying colors. Lived another fifteen years.”

I looked at him and said with plenty of sarcasm, “Gee, Ross,
thanks
. That really helps.”

Carol jumped to defend him. “Martin, Ross just—”

I held up my hands. “It's okay. I'm sorry. I'm a little upset.”

At that point, Maggie arrived. My savior. She was my excuse not to talk to Carol and her boyfriend. But it was also my chance to introduce her to my ex.

“Maggie, thank goodness you're here!”

“Sorry I'm a little late. The last patient didn't leave the office until six. Traffic was terrible getting here from Deerfield.” She looked at Carol and Ross. “Hello.”

“Maggie, this is Carol Wilton and Ross Maxwell. Carol is Gina's mother. This is Dr. Margaret McDaniel.”

“Oh, I'm happy to meet you.” Maggie shook hands with them. I watched Carol's face as she realized that the striking woman next to me was my new girlfriend. I believe she was surprised I could land someone so obviously out of my league. Ross appeared to be a bit knocked out by her, too.

“Maggie, we can go in and see Mom briefly.” I repeated what I'd told my ex.

Maggie nodded and said, “It's what I thought.” She wrapped her arms around me and gave me a warm, affectionate hug. “Don't worry, Martin. It may not be as serious as it looks.” I happened to be facing Carol during the embrace and saw that she was still a little in shock.

When we parted, I addressed Carol. “I haven't heard from Gina. I left her a couple of messages. Do you know where she is?”

Carol regained her composure and answered, “She went to a friend's place in New Rochelle. It's not far from the city. She's spending the weekend there.”

“Nice of her to tell me. She couldn't have left her phone behind, could she?”

“I doubt it. She's probably busy, doing something fun. I'm sure she'll call tomorrow if not later tonight.”

“Okay. Come on, Maggie, let's go see Mom.”

“Is there anything we can do?” Carol asked. “We rushed over here as soon as we heard.”

Normally, I would have felt obligated to let her see Mom, too, or provide a meal or something. Not this time, not with Maggie at my side. “Thanks, Carol, why don't I let you know? I appreciate you coming, but there's nothing to be done at the moment.” I gave her a sincere look and then walked away with Maggie. I heard Ross say, “Take care,” and Carol add, “Call if you need us.” I think they were a little miffed by the brush-off.

When we were inside ICU, Maggie said, “So that's Carol, huh?”

“That's Carol. And her
fiancé
.”

“Weren't you a little rude?”

“Tough shit. I don't really feel like playing games with her and Moneybags right now.”

Mom was alone, hooked up to a zillion monitors and machines. An oxygen mask covered her face. If it weren't for all the hospital paraphernalia, she'd look like she was peacefully sleeping. I approached the bed and stared at her face. What was going on inside that head? Did a person dream while in a coma? Could she hear us talk?

For several minutes, I didn't say a word. I just stood there and watched her breathe. Finally, though, I realized that my being there served no purpose. Tomorrow was Thanksgiving. I might as well go home.

“Good night, Mom. I'll see you tomorrow.” I leaned over and kissed her forehead. “You get better, okay? I want you to get a good night's sleep and wake up soon, all right?”

The anxiety bubble in my chest nearly burst and I felt my eyes water. I turned to Maggie and hugged her again. Then we left.

*   *   *

We went to Maggie's apartment. The plan was that I'd stay the night, we'd go back to the hospital in the morning, and if there was still no change, we'd share Thanksgiving together. Maggie had all the food ready to go. Normally, I'd watch a football game or two in the afternoon, but that scheme was on hold.

She fixed us a couple of stiff drinks, even though she acknowledged I shouldn't consume alcohol while on antidepressants. “One won't hurt you, and I think you need it,” she said. I did indeed.

We sat quietly on the couch after Maggie put on a Norah Jones CD. After a while, she spoke, “You know, Martin, it might be really helpful if we knew what caused those wounds your Mom has.”

That again.

When I didn't answer, she continued, “Come on, Martin. Two gunshot injuries? Knife scars? What the hell did your mother do when she was young? You swear you don't know?”

I desperately wanted to tell her. The panic in my chest was a pressure cooker that could be relieved only by revealing the truth. That much I knew. Instead, I simply said I didn't know, and then tears ran down my face. Maggie took my hand and led me into the bedroom. She sat me down, squatted to remove my shoes, and then gently pushed me back to a horizontal position. She climbed on the bed next to me, and we stayed like that until we fell asleep.

Sometime later, we both opened our eyes and realized we were still in our clothes. I watched Maggie stand and get undressed. She then got under the covers and peeked out like a schoolgirl as I stood and removed my things. I slipped in beside her and relished her soft, warm skin. The kissing started, the hands roamed, and very soon we passionately became one. I felt my anxiety melt away.

It was then that I knew Maggie was the woman for me. And I'm pretty sure the feeling was mutual. Hearing her cry out my name as she reached a climax was heaven-sent music to my ears.

J
ULY 11, 1960

The Democratic National Convention started today in Los Angeles. I wish I could've gone. It would have been so exciting. My fingers are crossed for Kennedy. His campaign has a lot of momentum, and most people here at headquarters think he'll get the nomination. He hasn't picked a running mate yet, and there're all kinds of speculation as to who it will be. Needless to say, it's going to be a busy week at my volunteer job.

Dear diary, I think I made a big mistake Saturday night with Michael. I looked back over what I wrote yesterday and now I don't feel as good about it. Yes, I had a nice time with him, it felt good and all that, but today I'm just not as enamored of him. Saturday night and most of the day yesterday I was in the afterglow, probably because it had been so long since I'd been with a man. There was Jimmy, of course, but I knew that wasn't going to turn into a romance. I know it sounds scandalous, but that was just a
physical
thing, something that happened because I must have lost my head for a moment. I believe sex before marriage is all right if you really like the guy. As for Michael, well, I'm not in love with him. I like him and I'll continue to see him. It's just that he's such an odd duck. I can't figure him out. Maybe Europeans are just—well,
different
. Fiorello was Italian, born in Sicily, but he grew up in America. I
could relate to Fiorello, whereas Michael has been in the U.S. only three years or so.

All that aside
, he didn't call me last night. You'd think a guy would phone a girl the next day after he'd slept with her. Geez, I sound like a loose woman.