In the face of her placidity, Mary realized anger was futile, illogical. It could change nothing.
She slumped down deeper in the hard chair, until the base of her spine ached. “Okay, I’m sorry. None of this is your fault.”
“It’s something that happens,” Dr. Keshna said.
“How much do you know about her condition?”
“Some. Not as much as Dr. Brainton.”
“He’s not here to ask. You are.”
“Yes.”
“Will she live?”
“Possibly.”
“What are the chances? The odds?”
“That I couldn’t say.”
“Did what happened to her have anything to do with her alcoholism?”
“Maybe yes, maybe no. Human organisms work dependent upon each other. I don’t mean to be flippant, but nothing to do with cancer, or alcoholism, is perfectly predictable.”
“So, is a medical prognosis just an exercise in unpredictability?”
“Always, I’m afraid.”
“You don’t talk like most doctors.”
“Your mother’s not my patient now, and I couldn’t predict the outcome of her illness with any accuracy.”
“I’m only asking for your guess.”
“After she completes chemotherapy, then we’ll see.” The sad, wise smile. Old smile. “Until then, try to be patient.”
Mary felt her sorrow, her rage, rise up in her. And something else-hopelessness. She bowed her head and began to cry silently. The tears tracking down her cheeks felt hot, as if she were fevered. She wanted to pray but resisted. At least she had the courage of her nonconvictions.
Dr. Keshna’s fingertips touched her quaking shoulder. “I’m sorry. Do you want me to give you something to help you sleep?”
She nodded, and the doctor disappeared, then returned in a few minutes with a small brown plastic vial. “Take only one pill, just before bedtime,” she said.
Mary thanked her and accepted the pills. Then she stood up. Her right hip was partly numb and her legs felt as heavy and unresponsive as if she’d been dancing for hours. Dr. Keshna was gazing at her again with her very wise eyes, understanding and unfathomable pity in them; she seemed to know something about Angie and Mary but there was no way to impart the knowledge. She touched Mary lightly again, this time on the back of her arm, as if she might ease anguish with the laying on of her tiny, gentle hands.
Neither woman spoke as Mary trudged from the hospital into the night.
34
He’d followed her home from the hospital and watched her park her car, then walk with her head bowed to her apartment and disappear inside. Lights came on, but she didn’t move around and he didn’t glimpse her through a window. She was no doubt tired, after her busy day and busy night.
He smiled. He knew about what she did, almost everything she did. She wouldn’t like that if she found out, but wasn’t that the delicious part?
She’d still be awake. He could walk up to her door and knock, and she’d answer.
And it would be as simple as that. Inside. He’d be inside, and there’d be nothing she could do about it. He absently ran his hand over his tumescent penis, thinking about that. It was always this way. A measure of time would pass, then he’d have to act. Something made him act, often when it wasn’t wise, and he simply had to make the best of the way things turned out. Sometimes that was difficult. It was a good thing he was smart.
Suddenly he stepped down off the curb and started across the street toward her apartment, repeating her name in his mind: Mary, Mary, Mary. She could probably feel that upstairs, but she wouldn’t quite know what the feeling meant. Not yet.
Light washed over him as a car rounded the corner, but he didn’t pay much attention.
Until he saw the dull red and blue bar of lights on the roof, and the official lettering on the door.
A police car!
The patrol car slowed as it approached him. He continued to cross the street without speeding up. He could hear the car’s engine slowly laboring near him. When he glanced to the side he saw there were two men in the dusty blue cruiser. As he stepped up on the sidewalk it almost braked to a halt and he thought for sure the one on the passenger side would say something to him, stop him and question him. Why were they so interested in him, anyway? Did he look suspicious? Could they somehow know his thoughts?
He stopped near a parked car, a big expensive gray Buick, and pretended to be fishing in his pocket for a key, taking his time, waiting for the patrol car cops to lose interest in him and travel on. A big luxury boat like the Buick, he must be an important man with influence; they better have a good reason for treating him like a criminal. A citizen could sue!
Great! Now the police car was sitting still in the middle of the street. And he had no key. What now? What would they think if he walked away from the Buick? That he forgot his briefcase?
No, not the way he was dressed.
More headlights!
A pickup truck had turned the corner onto Utah and stopped behind the patrol car, its driver waiting for the car to drive on.
Desperately, he fumbled with the door handle and found the Buick was unlocked. Much better! Luck going his way. He climbed in and slid across the seat until he was behind the steering wheel. Acted as if he were bending forward to fit the key in the ignition.
That must have done it. The pickup truck eased closer to the cruiser’s rear bumper as its driver became impatient, and the cops gave up their curiosity. The police car edged forward, then picked up speed. The truck followed at a deferential distance.
He sat behind the steering wheel and watched through the windshield until both vehicles had disappeared down the street.
Then he got out of the Buick and ran in the opposite direction until a pain beneath his heart made him stop.
As soon as she awakened the next morning, Mary reached out a hand and passed it over the smooth, cool expanse of the sheet, as if to reassure herself she was safe in her own bed.
Daylight was exploding silently through the spaces in the Venetian blinds, shooting needles into her eyes. She closed them again and thought for a moment that Angie’s cancer was a nightmare remembered. But it wasn’t. The undeniable fact of it settled over her like a pall.
She hadn’t been able to get to sleep right away last night, sitting up and watching TV, the end of the Letterman show, people whose pets did amazing things on cue.
Later, in bed, she’d lain awake for a long time staring into darkness, her thoughts as aimless as stringless kites, dipping and soaring anywhere they wouldn’t have to settle on Angie.
She opened one eye and peered painfully at the clock whose alarm she’d forgotten to set. Seven-thirty. If she hurried, she could still get to work on time. She assured herself of that as she struggled out of bed. The angled beams of sunlight were warm where they struck her bare legs.
After using a quick, cool shower to bring herself fully awake, she got dressed and walked into the kitchen. She needed coffee badly.
She added a little water to yesterday’s leftover brew in Mr. Coffee’s glass pot, poured some into a cup and put it in the microwave. She walked around the apartment while the coffee was getting hot, pacing, relieving some kind of pressure she didn’t understand.
Finally she walked back into the kitchen. She decided to drink her coffee black, maybe clear her head by using caffeine as a substitute for a good night’s sleep.
Still not hungry, but knowing she should eat, she stuck a piece of bread in the toaster, and when it popped up she spread strawberry jam on it.
As soon as she’d sat down with her toast and cup at the table there was a knock on her door. Hurried footsteps descended the steps to the foyer, and she barely heard the street door open and close.