"I think you'd better go," I said quietly.
"I'm going, I'm going. But you think on what I've said, and you'll see it's true."
"Don't come back for a while," I added. "Because you won't be welcome."
"Now, Maddox-"
"Go, will you?" I said. "Don't make it any worse than it is."
He gave me a pained expression. He was now obviously regretting what he'd said; he'd undone in a few sentences the trust we'd so recently forged. But he knew better than to try and explain himself further. He took his sad eyes off me, turned, and walked off across the lawn.
What can I tell you about this terrible accusation of his? It seems to me very little. I've recounted as honestly as I could the salient points of our exchanges, and I'll return to the subject later, when I have a better perspective on it all. It probably goes without saying that I wouldn't have been so distracted by all this, and felt the need to report it as I have, if I didn't think there was some merit in what he said. But as you can imagine it's not easy to admit to, however much I may wish to be honest with myself, and with you. If I believe Luman's interpretation of events, then I am to blame for Chiyojo's demise; and for my own injuries; and thus also for the years of loneliness and grief I've passed, sitting here. That's hard to accept. I'm not sure I'm even capable of it. But be assured that if I come to some peace with this suspicion, then these pages will be the first to know.
Enough. It's time to pick up the story of Rachel and Mitchell Geary. There's sorrow to come, very shortly. I promised early on that I'd give you enough of other people's despair to make you feel a little happier with your own lot. Well now it's me who needs the comfort of somebody else's tears.
The Monday following Mitchell's gift of the apartment, Rachel woke with the worst headache of her life; so bad it made her vision blurred. She took some aspirin, and went back to bed; but even then the pain didn't pass, so she called Margie, who said she'd be over in a few minutes and take her to Dr. Waxman. By the time she reached Waxman's office she was shaking with pain: not just a headache now, but crippling spasms in her stomach. Waxman was very concerned.
"I'm going to put you into Mount Sinai right away," he said. "There's a Dr. Hendrick there, he's wonderful; I want him to take a look at you."
"What's wrong with me?" Rachel said.
"Let's hope nothing at all. But I want you to be examined properly."
Even through the haze of pain Rachel could read the anxiety in his voice.
"I'm not going to lose the baby, am I?" she said.
"We'll do everything we can-"
'I can't lose the baby.''
"Your health's what's important right now, Rachel," he said. "There's nobody better than Gary Hendrick, believe me. You're in good hands."
An hour later she was in a private room in Mount Sinai. Hendrick came to examine her, and told her, very calmly, that there were some troubling signs-her blood pressure was high, there was some minor bleeding-and that he would be monitoring her very closely. He had given her some medication for the pain, which was beginning to take effect. She should just rest, he said; there'd be a nurse in the room with her at all times, so if she should need anything all she had to do was ask.
Margie had been calling around looking for Mitchell during this period, and upon Hendrick's departure came back in to say that he hadn't yet been located, but his secretary thought he was probably between meetings, and would be calling in very soon.
"You're going to be just fine, honey," Margie said. "Waxman likes to be melodramatic once in a while. It makes him feel important."
Rachel smiled. The painkiller Hendrick had given her had induced a heaviness in her limbs and lids. She resisted the temptation to sleep however: she didn't trust her body to behave itself in her absence.
"God," Margie said, "this is a rare occurrence for me."
"What's that?"
"Cocktail hour and no cocktail."
Rachel grinned. "Waxman thinks you should give it up."
"He should try being married to Garrison sober," Margie quipped.
Rachel opened her mouth to reply, but as she did so she felt a strange sensation in her throat, as though she swallowed something hard. She put her hand up to touch the place, a squeak of panic escaping her.
"What's wrong, honey?" Margie said.
She didn't hear the last word; her head filled with a rush of sound, like a dam bursting between her ears. From the corner of her eye she saw the nurse rising from her chair, a look of alarm on her face. Then she felt her body convulse with such violence she was almost thrown from the bed. By the time the spasm had passed she was unconscious.
Mitchell arrived at Mount Sinai at a quarter to eight. Rachel had lost the baby fifteen minutes before.
Once Rachel was feeling well enough to sit up and talk-which took eight or nine days-Waxman came to visit, and in his kindly, avuncular manner explained what had happened. It was a rare condition, he said, called eclampsia; its causes were not clearly known, but it frequently proved fatal to both mother and child. She had been lucky. Of course it was a tragedy that she'd lost the child, and he was deeply sorry about that, but he'd been talking to Hendrick, who'd reported that she was getting stronger by the day, and would soon be up and around again. If she wanted any further details about what she'd endured he'd be happy to explain it more fully to her when she was ready. Meanwhile, she had one task and one only: to put this sorry business behind her.
So much for the medical explanation. It meant very little; and in truth she didn't entirely believe it. Whatever the doctors' reports said, Rachel had her own theory as to what had happened: her body had simply not wanted to produce a Geary. Her secret self had sent a message to her womb and her womb had sent a message to her heart, and between them they'd conspired to be rid of the child. In other words it was her fault that the infant had died before it had had a chance to live. If she'd only been able to love it, her body would have nurtured it better. Her fault; all her fault.
She shared this certainty with no one. When she got out of hospital after two weeks of convalescence Mitch suggested she see a counselor to talk it all through with.
"Waxman said you'll grieve for a time," he said. "It's like losing somebody, even though you didn't really know them. You should talk it all out. It'll be easier to deal with."
She couldn't help but notice that as far as Mitch was concerned it was her grief, her baby that had been lost, not his. All of which irrationally supported her thesis. He knew what she'd done; he probably hated her.
She refused to see a counselor however: this was her pain, and she was going to keep it for herself. Maybe it would fill up the emptiness in her where the child had been. .
She had plenty of visitors. Sherrie came in from Ohio the day after the baby's death, and was a nearly constant presence at the hospital. Deborah came and went, as did Margie. Even Garrison visited, though he was so plainly uneasy Rachel finally told him he should leave, and he gladly took up the suggestion telling her he'd come back the next day when he had less on his mind. He didn't, and she was glad.
"Where do you want to stay when we get you out of here?" Mitchell asked after about ten days. "Do you want to go to the duplex or stay with Margie for a while?"
"You know where I'd really like to go?" she said.
"Tell me and it's done."
"George's house."
"Caleb's Creek?" He looked thoroughly perplexed that she'd choose such a place. "It's so far out from the city."
"That's what I want," she replied. "I don't want to have visitors right now. I want to just… hide away for a while. Think about things."