"Would you rather sleep? I could try to stop back tomorrow."
She looked at me, squinting to focus. "No. Stay."
I walked the rest of the way to her bedside, pulled up a chair, and sat down. "How did it go?" I asked.
"Dr. Slattery says the infection had gotten into the bone. They had to take a piece of it."
I nodded, looking at the steel rods holding her leg together. "Opening the wound and letting the bad stuff out should prevent that from happening again," I said, picking up on the metaphor for her psychological trauma that I had started to build during our last meeting.
"Right," she whispered, obviously unconvinced.
I remembered telling her that I wasn't afraid to see the truth-even if it was ugly. I needed to prove that that was true in the physical realm, in order to coax her to reveal her emotional wounds. I leaned forward and touched one corner of the gauze bandage. "Do you mind if I take a look?" I asked.
She shook her head. Her gaze focused intently on my hand.
I gently pulled the gauze back far enough for me-and Lilly-to see the incision. She turned her head immediately and stared at the wall. I kept looking at the dissected layers of skin, fat, and muscle. Sterile gauze, soaked with bloody drainage, filled the base of the wound, which clearly went bone-deep. "Good," I said.
"Good?" she said bitterly.
"All the tissue they left looks healthy," I said.
She rolled her eyes.
"The last thing you'd want," I said, "would be a surgeon who wasn't willing to follow the infection all the way to its source." I noticed a tear start down Lilly's face. I grabbed a tissue from the nightstand and blotted her cheek dry.
She turned her head toward me, but said nothing.
"It's really no different than what I try to do," I said. "I have to help my patients trace the roots of their pain as deep as they go."
A few seconds passed. "What if your patient doesn't know what caused the pain?" she asked.
"Asking the question is half the answer," the voice at the back of my mind said. "She wants to take the journey. At heart, everyone wants the truth."
My breathing slowed. My eyes closed an instant, then reopened. "If you don't know, then we both have to find the courage to figure it out," I said.
Lilly blushed. "I have trouble talking about myself," she said.
"Why is that?" I asked.
"I guess I think it's safer to keep things inside."
"Safer?"
She didn't respond.
"What's the danger in opening up?" I asked.
"People who tell too much about themselves end up…" She stopped short.
"End up… what?" I asked.
"I don't know." Her brow furrowed. "Alone, I think."
That statement spoke volumes about Lilly. Fabricating an illness-lying-had brought her close attention from a team of doctors. Coming to terms with the real source of her suffering, especially if that source was abuse at her grandfather's hand, would end her relationship with him, and possibly with other family members as well. The risk of abandonment was real and had been with her since her childhood. There was no sense candy-coating the stakes. "I know how frightening it is for you," I said, "but you have to be willing to be alone, for a while. At the very least, you have to be willing to be alone with your own thoughts."
She nibbled at her lower lip, like a timid little girl. "I can't stand being by myself."
That was a pretty clear message. She needed something-someone-to count on, no matter what she divulged. I touched her thigh, just above the incision. "I promise to stay with you every step of the way," I said.
"But how can you say that?" she asked. "You don't even know me. How am I supposed to trust you?"
I could have come up with a platitude to sidestep that question, but only an honest response would count with a person whose life had become a lie. "You can't be sure that I'm trustworthy," I said. "You can never be certain-not with anyone. Eventually, you'll have to take a leap of faith. You'll have to go with your gut."
"I don't know," she sighed. "I'm so confused."
Another small victory; confusion is often the first sign of weakening in the mind's defense mechanisms. I didn't want to seem too eager to breach them. "Shall I stop back in a few days, then?" I asked.
She stared at me several seconds. "Okay," she said. "Yes."
I made it home just before 11:00 p.m. A message from North Anderson on my voice mail told me I was scheduled to interview Billy Bishop at 10:30 a.m. the next day. Judging from my experience flying to Manhattan on other cases, that would mean taking the 7:30 A.M. shuttle, planning for it to be late by a couple hours, which it pretty much always is.
I decided to hop on the Internet and learn what I could about Darwin Bishop. Yahoo! came up with 2,948 references, from sources like the Wall Street Journal, BusinessWeek, and CNN Financial News. The pieces told me Bishop had founded CMM with over $40 million of venture capital, that he had recruited engineers and metallurgists out of MIT, CalTech, and the University at St. Petersburg, and that his company had grown to one thousand employees within eighteen months. A mention in the New York Times noted Bishop's winning bid of $4.2 million for a Mark Rothko oil painting that had been predicted to bring $800,000 at auction at Sotheby's. His lavish lifestyle caught the eye of Vanity Fair, which published photographs of his vintage car collection and his nineteen-thousand-square-foot River House penthouse, as large as a quaint hotel. The property, located on 52nd Street, on a cul de sac between First Avenue and the East River, was also home to Henry Kissinger and Sir Rothschild. The penthouse had itself been owned by the Astor family before Bishop picked it up for a mere $13 million. And that was before Manhattan real estate really went through the roof.
I lingered over an archived, older piece from New York magazine entitled "Bishop Takes Bride on Ride of Her Life" that focused on Bishop's marriage to "socialite and Elite model Julia Oakley." A photo captured the Bishops in tux and wedding gown, driving a red Ferrari Testarossa down Fifth Avenue. Julia looked ravishing.
Midway through the article, Bishop commented on his first marriage. "Lauren and I had two great years," Bishop had told the reporter. "I wouldn't trade our time together for anything. We just sort of woke up one day and said, 'We're better as friends than we are as husband and wife.' And let me tell you something: I couldn't have a better friend."
I chuckled. You had to figure there was a lot more to that story.
I scanned dozens of entries, flew past a couple hundred others, then stopped short when my eye caught one that seemed out of sync with the rest. It was a 1995 article in the New York Daily News, headlined "Trouble at the Top," that described Bishop's arrest for drunk driving.
STUART TABOR
SPECIAL TO THE DAILY NEWS
MANHATTAN
A Manhattan man was arrested shortly after 2:00 a.m. yesterday when his Porsche Carrera slammed into two other cars on the Triboro Bridge, and he then fled the scene.
Darwin Bishop, age 45, of 32 East 49th Street, was charged with driving under the influence, driving to endanger, leaving the scene of an accident and resisting arrest. Police apprehended him after a high-speed chase that ended in Astoria, Queens.
Despite a prior 1981 conviction for assault and battery, Bishop was released today on personal recognizance after posting $250,000 cash bail.
Estelle Marshfeld, 39, was transported from the scene of the crash to the Columbia Presbyterian Hospital, where she is listed in guarded condition, with injuries to her chest and abdomen. There were no other reported injuries.
A photograph showed a very different Darwin Bishop from the unflappable man I had seen earlier in the day on Nantucket. His head was down and his hands were cuffed behind him as two police officers escorted him into the Twenty-third Precinct station. Bloodstains covered the front of his blue and white pinstriped shirt.