The Promise (4 page)

Chapter 4

He looked so painfully pale as his mother sat there watching him. Marion Hillyard sat in a corner of the room with a bleak expression on her face. She had been there before, in that room, on that day, watching that face … not really that face, or that room, but she felt as though nothing had changed. It was just like when Frederick had the massive coronary that had killed him within hours. She had sat there, just as still, just as frightened, just as alone. And he had … Frederick … she felt a sob catch in her throat again and she took a deep, sharp breath. She couldn't cry. She couldn't let herself think those thoughts. Her husband was gone. Michael wasn't Nothing was going to happen to Michael. She wouldn't let anything happen. She was holding on to him now with every ounce of strength she could give.

For a moment she turned her gaze to the nurse's face. The woman was watching Michael intently, but with no sign of alarm. He had been in a coma all that day, since the accident the night before. Marion had gotten there at five in the morning. She had called a twenty-four-hour limousine service and been driven up from New York. But she would have walked if she'd had to. Nothing would have kept her from Michael's side; she had to be there to keep him alive. He was all she had now. Michael, and the business … and the business was for him. She had done it all for him … well, not all for him, but for the most part. It was the greatest gift she could give him. The gift of power, of success. He couldn't throw that away on that little bitch … he couldn't throw it away by
dying
. Jesus. It was all her fault, that damned girl. She had probably talked him into this. She had …

The nurse got up quickly and pulled at Michael's eyelids, as Marion went tense and forgot what she had been thinking. She stood up silently and quickly and walked to the nurse's side. Whatever there was to see, she wanted to see it. But there was nothing. No change. The expressionless woman in white held his wrist for a moment and then mouthed the same words again. “No change.” She motioned toward the corridor then and Marion followed her outside. This time the woman's concern was not for Michael, but for his mother.

“Dr. Wickfield told me to ask you to leave by five o'clock, Mrs. Hillyard. And I'm afraid …” She looked menacingly at her watch, and then smiled apologetically. It was five fifteen. Marion had been at Michael's side for exactly twelve hours. She had sat there uninterrupted all day, with only two cups of coffee to keep her going. But she wasn't tired, she wasn't hungry, she wasn't anything. And she wasn't leaving.

“Thank you for the thought I'll just walk down the hall for a moment and come back.” She wasn't leaving him. Not ever. She had left Frederick. Only for an hour, to have dinner. They had insisted that she eat something, and it had happened then. He had died while she was gone. That wasn't going to happen this time. She knew that as long as she sat there, Michael wouldn't die. The damage was mostly internal, but even Wickfield felt he'd come out of the coma soon. Still, she wasn't taking any chances. They had thought Frederick would make it, too. There were tears in her eyes now as she stood staring blankly at the pale blue wall behind the nurse.

“Mrs. Hillyard? The woman gently touched her arm, and Marion started. “You ought to get some rest. Dr. Wickfield set aside a room for you on the third floor.”

“There's no need.” She smiled blankly at the nurse and walked away toward the far end of the hall. The sun was still bright in the window there, and she sat carefully on the ledge, to smoke her first cigarette in hours and watch the sun set over a white church in the pretty New England town. Thank God the town only looked remote, and was actually less than an hour from Boston. They had had no trouble bringing in the best doctors to consult, and as soon as he could stand it, Michael would be moved to a hospital in New York. But at least she knew that in the meantime he was in good hands. Medically, Michael had taken the worst of it. The Avery boy was pretty badly broken up, but he was awake and alive, and his father had had him taken to Boston by ambulance that afternoon. He had broken an arm, a thigh, a foot, and a collar-bone, but he'd be all right And the girl … well, it was her fault, there was no reason why she should … Marion stubbed out the cigarette with a quick crushing motion of her foot The girl would be all right too. She'd live anyway. The only thing she had lost was her face. And maybe that was just as well. For a fraction of a second Marion wanted to fight the anger, wanted to make herself sorry for the girl—just in case all that crap about Christian charity was true, just in case her feelings made some difference for Michael… just in case there was a God who would punish her by taking him. But she couldn't do it. She hated the girl with every ounce of her being.

“I thought I left orders for you to get some rest.” Marion turned toward the voice with a start, and then smiled tiredly when she saw her own Dr. Wickfield. Wicky. “Don't you ever listen to anyone, Marion?”

“Not if I can help it. How's Michael?” Her brow furrowed and she reached for another cigarette.

“I just looked in on him. He's stable. I told you, he'll come out of it. Give him time. His entire system received one hell of a shock.”

“So did mine when I got the news.” He nodded sympathetically. “You're sure there won't be permanent damage from this?” She paused for a moment and then said the dread words. “Brain damage?”

Wickfield patted her arm and sat next to her on the window ledge. Behind them the little town made a scene pretty enough for a postcard. “I told you, Marion. As best we can tell, he'll be fine. A lot depends of course on how long he stays under. But I'm not frightened yet.”

“I am.” They were two tiny words in the mouth of a very strong woman, and they surprised her doctor, as he looked at her closely. There were sides to Marion Hillyard that no one even guessed at. “What about the girl?” she went on. Now she was the Marion he knew again, eyes narrowed behind the smoke from her cigarette, face hardened, fear gone.

“Not much is going to change for her. Not for the time being anyway. She's been in stable condition all day, but there's not a damn thing we can do for her. For one thing, It's much too soon, and for another, there are only one or two men in the country who can cope with that kind of total reconstruction. There is simply nothing left of her face, not a single bone intact, not a nerve, not a muscle. The only thing not totally wiped out are her eyes.”

“The better to see herself with.” Dr. Wickfield jumped at the tone of Marion's voice.

“Michael was driving, Marion. She wasn't” But Marion only nodded in answer. There was no point in going over it with him. She knew whose fault it was. It was the girl's.

“What happens to someone like that if there's no repair work done? Will she live?”

“Unfortunately, yes. But she'll lead a tragic life. You can't take a twenty-two-year-old girl and turn her into a horror like that and expect her to adjust. No one could. Was she … was she pretty before?”

“I suppose so. I don't know. We'd never met.” Her tone was rock hard, and her eyes equally so.

“I see. In any case, she's in for some tough realities. They'll do what they can here at the hospital when she's a little more recovered, but it won't be much. Does she have money?”

“None.” Marion spoke the word like a death sentence. It was the worst thing she could say of anyone.

“Then she won't have many alternatives. I'm afraid the men who do this kind of thing don't do it for charity.”

“Do you have anyone particular in mind?”

“Well, I know some of the names. Two, actually. The best one is out in San Francisco.” A little fire kindled in Dr. Wickfield's heart With all her money, Marion Hillyard could … if only … “His name is Peter Gregson. We met several years ago. He's really an amazing guy.”

“Could he do this?”

Wickfield felt a rush of admiration for the woman. He almost wanted to hug her, but he didn't dare. “He may well be the only man who could. Shall I… do you want me to call him?” He hesitated to say the words, and then she looked at him with those cold, calculating eyes and he wondered what she had in mind. The wave of admiration almost turned to fear.

“I'll let you know.”

“Fine.” He looked at his watch then, and stood up.

“I'd like you to go downstairs and rest now. I really mean that.”

“I know.” She favored him with a wintry smile. “But I'm not going to. You know that too. I have to be with Michael.”

“Even if you kill yourself doing it?”

“I won't. I'm too mean to die, Wicky. Besides, I still have a lot of work to do.”

“Is it worth it?” He looked at her curiously for a moment. If he had had one tenth of her ambition, he would have been a great surgeon, but he didn't and he wasn't. And he wasn't even sure that he envied her. “Is it worth it?” He said it more softly the second time, and she nodded.

“Absolutely. Don't ever doubt it for a second. It's given me everything I want out of life.” Unless I lose Michael. She closed her eyes and pushed away the thought.

“Well, I'll give you another hour with him, and then I'm coming back up here. And I don't care if I have to shoot you with Nembutal and drag you away myself, you're going. Is that dear?”

“Very.” She stood up, dropped another cigarette to the floor where she crushed it, and patted his cheek. “And Wicky—” She looked up at him from under long chestnut lashes, and for a moment she was all softness and elegant beauty. “—thank you.” He gently kissed her cheek, squeezed her arm, and stood back for a moment.

“He'll be all right, Marion, you'll see.” He didn't dare mention the girl again. They could talk about that later. He only smiled and walked away, as she stood there looking vulnerable and alone. He was glad he had called George Calloway a few hours before. Marion needed someone with her. He thought about her all the way down the corridor, as she stood watching him go. She hadn't moved from the spot where he had left her, and then slowly, she began the lonely walk up the hall, back towards Michael's room, past open doors and closed ones, heartbreaks to come and hopes never to be known again. And a few who would make it. This was a floor set aside for the critically ill, and there was no sound from any of the rooms as she walked slowly by, until she was halfway down the hall, where she heard little jerking sobs come from an open door. The sounds were so soft that at first she wasn't sure what she was hearing. And then she saw the room number, and she knew. She stopped as though she had come to a wall, staring at the door, and the darkness beyond.

She could see the bed dimly outlined in the comer, but the room was dark; all blinds and curtains had been drawn, as though the patient could not be touched by light. Marion stood there for a long moment, afraid to go in, but knowing that she had to; and then slowly, one foot after the other, softly, gliding, she walked a few feet into the room and stopped again. The sobs were a little louder now, and coming at quicker intervals, with little panicky gasps.

“Is someone there?” The girl's entire head was covered with bandages, and the voice was muffled and strange. “Is someone …” She cried harder now. “I can't see.”

“Your eyes are Just covered with bandages. There's nothing wrong with your eyes.” But the words were met by fresh sobs. “Why are you awake?” Marion spoke to her in a monotone. They were not words of reassurance, they were devoid of all feeling, and Marion herself felt as though she were standing in a dream. But she knew that she had to be there. Had to. For Michael's sake. “Didn't they give you something to make you sleep?”

“It doesn't work. I keep waking up.”

“Is the pain very bad?”

“No, everything is numb. Who … who are you?”

She was afraid to tell her. Instead, she moved toward the bed and sat down in the narrow blue vinyl chair the nurse must have pulled up next to it. The girl's hands were wrapped in bandages, too, and lay useless at her sides. Marion remembered Wicky telling her that the girl had naturally used her hands to try to shield her face. The damage to them was almost as great as to her face, which would be devastating to her as an artist. In essence, her whole life was over. Her youth, her beauty, her work. And her romance. But now Marion knew what she had to say.

“Nancy—” It was the first time she had said the name, but now it didn't matter. She had no choice. “Did they …” Her voice was smooth and silky as she sat next to the broken girl. “Did they tell you about your face?” There was total silence in the room for an endless amount of time, and then a small broken sob freed itself from the bandages. “Did they tell you how bad it was?” Her stomach turned over as she said the words, but she could not stop now. She had to free Michael. If she freed him, he would live. She felt that in her guts. “Did they tell you how impossible it would be to put you back together?”

The sobs were angry now. “They lied to me. They said …”

“There's only one man who can do it, Nancy, and it would cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. You can't afford it. And neither can Michael.'”

“I'd never let him do that.” She was angry at the voice now, as well as at fate. “I'd never let him … ”

“Then what will you do?”

“I don't know.” And the sobs began again.

“Could you face him like that?” It took minutes for the stifled “no” to emerge. “Do you think he would love you like that? Even if he tried, because he felt some bond of loyalty, some obligation, how long could it last? How long could you bear knowing what you looked like and what you were doing to him?” The sounds Nancy made now were frightening. She sounded as though she were going to be sick, and Marion wondered if she herself would be as well. “Nancy, there's nothing left of you. Nothing. There's nothing left of the life you had before today.” They sat in interminable silence, and Marion thought she would hear those sobs forever. But it had to be painful or it would never work. “You've already lost him. You couldn't do this to him. And he … he deserves better than that. If you love him, you know that. And … and so do you. But you could have a new life, Nancy.” The girl didn't even bother to answer as her sobs went on. “You
could
have a new life. A whole new world.” She waited until the sobs grew angrier again and then stopped. “A whole new face.”