"Believe me, I'd love to," Saloa replied. "Unfortunately, Alan is a very stubborn man. I tried him on patient-controlled analgesia, but he wouldn't use it often enough. He contends that the level of painkiller he really needs leaves him too muddle- headed to make the most of the time he has left. I respect that decision, but I know it periodically makes his existence a living hell. I wish there were an alternative."
"Perhaps there is," Adam said. "Has anyone suggested trying hypnosis?"
"Funny you should ask that," Saloa replied. "Only yesterday, I was reading a Lancet article about using hypnosis as an alternative - or at least an adjunct - to drug analgesia. But I've no experience with hypno-technique, and don't know anyone on the staff here who does. Unless you might possibly have some expertise in that area?" he added, with a shrewd glance at Adam.
Adam smiled. "As luck would have it, it's rather a specialty of mine. I'd be more than happy to offer my services, if you think your patient might benefit."
"I'm certainly willing to give it a try," Saloa said. "But the deciding vote will have to come from Alan himself, of course."
"Then, if you have no objection, I'll put the suggestion to him at the first likely opportunity."
"You do that," Saloa replied. "I'll leave you to choose your moment."
Adam accepted the other doctor's cordial invitation to be present during his morning visitation. Lockhart was just rousing when they entered his room. A night's rest had brought the sick man a fragile measure of restoration, but the sunshine streaming in through the window only served to highlight the parchment-like transparency of his skin.
Lockhart greeted both doctors warmly, though his expression indicated some surprise at seeing Adam in the absence of his family. Saloa conducted his routine examination with relaxed efficiency, his medical inquiries deftly intermingled with bantering small-talk. When he was finished, he bade his patient goodbye and absented himself in a show of breezy good humor. Left alone with Adam, Lockhart quirked an ironic eyebrow.
"I gather you've been powwowing with Saloa," he observed. "He's a good man. You've also managed to give my daughter the slip. What brings you back here all on your own?"
Adam smiled. "She's busy teaching just now. Besides that, I got the distinct impression you wanted to speak with me further. I thought you might find the conversation less tiring if there were just the two of us present."
Lockhart's gaze conveyed full appreciation for what Adam was suggesting. "You're very perceptive," he said. "Pull up a chair. Now, where were we, when we were so rudely interrupted by my obstreperous granddaughter?"
"I seem to recall being encouraged to go on at length about my pet restoration project," Adam said, settling into a chair close beside the head of Lockhart's bed.
"The tower-house, yes," Lockhart murmured. "Ximena tells me that the property itself has been in your family for many generations. It must be very satisfying to see this monument to your family's history brought back to life."
"My workmen and I have met with our share of obstacles along the way," Adam said, "not least of which is the problem of how to incorporate such modern-day necessities as electricity, plumbing, and heating, without doing violence to the structural design. But we're making progress. One day I hope to be able to take up residence there, at least for part of the year. Your daughter has been gracious enough to indulge my bit of whimsy."
This observation drew a wan grin from his listener.
"Hardly whimsy, where my daughter is concerned," Lock-hart replied. "She has a lively interest in history. Even as a child, she was fascinated by ruins. When she was twelve, we took her with us on a trip down to Chichen Itza. The expression on her face when we arrived at the city was something I've never forgotten."
Adam listened with complete attention as Lockhart reminisced about this and other trips he had taken with his wife and children. The recollections helped Adam begin to build a comprehensive picture of the relationship the older man shared with his daughter. Lockhart was manifestly proud of Ximena's personal and professional achievements, but it troubled him that, for all her talents and abilities, she had yet to find a place to anchor her affections.
"She's always been in love with a challenge," Lockhart mused, almost as if he were thinking out loud. "When she was little, I thought I was doing the right thing by encouraging her to exercise her intellectual curiosity. Now I begin to wonder if I pushed her too far in that direction. In nurturing her academic development, did I also, unwittingly, encourage her to neglect her emotional growth and satisfaction?
"You haven't been a father - yet," he continued, "so I'm going to tell you something about parenthood that you may not realize. You'll want your children to have everything you never had, everything you ever had, and then some. You'll want them to partake in full measure of all the joys, wonders, and pleasures you've ever tasted in this life. And so far, Ximena's only halfway there."
"What do you feel she's in danger of missing?" Adam asked quietly.
"A family of her own," Lockhart said bluntly. "What my daughter needs now, more than anything else in her life, is a reason to look beyond the day after tomorrow. Having a husband and children would give her that change in perspective. Responsibilities like these would encourage her to shift her sights toward a future greater and more far-ranging than her next career move."
"Do you regret her professional success?" Adam asked.
"Good heavens, no! That's just the point. She's woman enough to have it all. I want her to have it all. But she has to find it for herself. And I'm not sure she's looking in the right places - or if she is, she's blinding herself to what's staring her in the face."
As the older man paused to gather his strength, Adam wisely said nothing, for he sensed that Lockhart was building up to some point in particular. That suspicion was confirmed when Ximena's father spoke again.
"Adam, I have to tell you something. I've always been a man of my word, and I know enough not to give that lightly. Upholding one's word is, after all, a matter of personal honor. I've never made a promise I didn't mean to keep, and I've always done my best to follow through. And that puts me in a very difficult position now."
Adam raised an eyebrow in inquiry but did not speak.
"Ximena probably doesn't remember this," Lockhart continued, "but when she was eight she made me promise I would come to her wedding. I gave that promise solemnly, in good faith. And it goes hard with me now that I may not be able to keep it."
"I see." An inkling of the reason for Lockhart's continued survival suddenly became clear to Adam. "Does that mean you wish you hadn't made it?"
Lockhart gave a gasp of laughter. "God, no! But that's one reason why I've been looking forward to your visit - wanting to see what kind of man you are. I've been hoping you'd be the one my daughter's been looking for all her life. Are you?"
Adam did not allow his gaze to waver, for Lockhart deserved an honest answer.
"I don't know," he told the other man truthfully. "For my own part, I think she's what I've been looking for - and we've certainly talked about marriage, if mainly in the abstract. But so far, she hasn't seemed disposed to commit herself."
After an uncomfortable pause, Lockhart whispered, "It's because of me, isn't it?"
"If so," Adam said quietly, "you may be sure it was only out of love."
"Dear God," Lockhart said, almost inaudibly - for, like Adam, he now was forced to consider the ironic possibility that, by postponing all decisions regarding love and marriage, Ximena might unwittingly have made him feel impelled to cling to life long past all reason - and thereby sentenced him to needless suffering.
"Adam," he said softly, "maybe it's time to talk to my daughter again."