"Uh, this weekend."
"So you're leaving us high and dry." '-Cassidy said he'd fill in. ' "I hope you'll still find some time for medicine.
" "I'll have to cut back, but I don't want to quit."
"Good. I don't want to lose you. Your work here has been excellent."
"Thank you, " she said, basking in the rare praise.
"The Hill will be educational for you, " Duncan said. "Give you a chance to see the kakistocracy at work. You'll witness firsthand the rampant sophistry of the congressional solipsists. They'll, " Marie the anesthetist groaned. "Oh, no. Here we go." Joanna glared at Gin in mock anger. "We were breezing along here. Did you have to get him started? " "Sorry, " Gin said.
"All right, all right, " Duncan said, glancing around and smiling behind his mask. The skin around his eyes crinkled with amusement.
"Despite your bumptious insubordination, I'll spare you all a lecture this time
But let me just say this, " Marie groaned again.
"Walt now, " Duncan said. "All I'm going to say, and I want you all to listen and remember that you heard it here first, I predict Gin will not last a year on the Hill before she throws her hands up in disgust.
" "There's always a chance of that, " Gin said, thinking of Joe Blair, "but I know these hearings are going to be interesting. I can't wait till they begin." Duncan glanced up at her." Neither can I, my dear .
Neither can I." Gin stared back at him. Something in those bright blue eyes . . .
something almost feral, reminding her of how he looked on the Capitol portico with Congressman Allard. An icy tendril traced a chill up her spine.
Gin left the Lathram office early and put in another call to the ICU when she got back to the apartment.
"She's having some BP problems, " the charge nurse said. "Real shocky.
Dr. Conway's here. Want to talk to him? " "No. Don't bother him.
Just tell him I was asking about her." Gin hung up. Damn. That didn't sound good.
She called her folks next. Her mother answered and Gin told her the good news.
"Is this what you want, Gin? " Mama said.
Why did everybody ask her that?
"Yes, Mama, " she said patiently. "For the time being."
"Then good.
I'm happy for you. We'll expect you about l six. ' "Expect me where?
" '"Here, of course. We'll celebrate. We'll open some spumante, and I'll make you your favorites, stuffed shells and three-cheese lasagna.
" Gin's mouth began to water. But she was so tired. And this was the stuff that had turned little Regina into big fat Pasta Panzella.
"I'm really beat, Mama. I was up, " "Gin, Gin, ' she said in that voice that always got to her. "You haven't been here in so long. You live a few minutes away and yet you never visit your family. Are you going to forget your Mama and Papa? " Gin repressed a sigh. "What time again?
" "Your father will be home by six. Get some sleep and we'll see you then." Gin collapsed on the bed and let sleep take her.
FAMILY GINA PULLED UP IN FRONT OF THE FAMILY HOME IN Arlington and stared at its aged brick front. During the first dozen years of her life it had been a two-story brick box sitting on a rise along with all the other brick boxes in this little postwar development. She remembered learning to ride a bike on that gently sloped driveway, watching the cars go by from her bedroom window up there on the second floor, helping Papa pull dandelions from the lawn every spring. Papa and his lawn, she thought, looking at the flawlessly green, precisely manicured front yard. Still perfect.
As Papa's butcher shop grew to an Italian specialty food store, and a little money was left over to play with, they added a screened porch to the front, enlarged the kitchen and master bedroom in the rear, and built on a deck. A nice, roomy, comfortable house now. Thirty years her folks had lived here, and probably intended to stay another thirty.
They weren't exactly into change.
Gin shook her head. Change? They were both born in America, her father was barely into his fifties now, her \ mother just fifty last April, yet they were old-world Italian in so many ways. Attitude-wise, they were barely into the twentieth century.
They'd actually arranged a marriage for her when she was two. Thank God that hadn't been mentioned in years. Apparently the fits both she and her intended had pitched during their adolescence had caused both families to reconsider.
She climbed the two steps to the front door and walked in without knocking. The delicious odor of sauteing garlic enveloped her. God, she loved that smell.
Her father sprang from his chair in front of the TV. He was only an inch taller than Gin, with broad shoulders and muscular arms, his full head of black hair was a little grayer every time she saw him, but he still had the vitality of a twenty-year-old.
"Gin! " He wrapped her in his bear arms and twirled her around.
"How's my little scswngzle? " She hugged him around the neck and kissed each cheek. "Fine, Papa." - He released her and held her at arm's length. "So, being a doctor's not enough for you, eh? Now a olitician too? " '"I'm not, "Gin! " It was Mama, wiping her hands on her apron as she trotted in from the kitchen. More hugs and kisses.
It was always this way. Gin came home for dinner and family affairs every two or three weeks, but each time they acted as if she'd been away for a year. She supposed an only child had to expect that.
Soon the three of them were standing around in the kitchen, sipping spumante, sneaking pieces of bread into Mama's sauce, laughing, reminiscing, talking about the future.
So good to be here. Times like this made her wish she visited more often. She loved the warmth, the security. She'd be taken care of here. She didn't have to prove anything here, she wouldn't be so tired all the time, she wouldn't have to be running in four different directions trying to do too many things, trying to learn where she fit, trying to make her life matter.
She fit here. She mattered here.
And she knew it was a velvet trap. As much as she loved her folks, she knew she'd go crazy here. Despite all the hustle and running and stress of her life now, she knew deep down she wouldn't want it any other way.
But the main thing was that her folks still didn't quite get it. As proud as they were of her, Gin knew they wondered when she was going to have time to give them grandchildren, bambinos to bounce on their knees.
She knew in the backs of their minds they felt their daughter would be better off being married to a doctor than being one, a nice Italian doctor, of course.
They knew something about Peter, but had no idea that they'd been living together.
Oh, God. Peter. She should have called him and told him about her new job. She'd have to do that first thing when she got home.
Peter . . . how could she have forgotten?
Stuffed from the food, logy from the spumante and the special Chianti Papa had broken out for the occasion, Gin got back to her apartment around half past ten. She washed up, brushed her teeth, and headed straight for the bedroom. But before hitting the sack, she dialed the ICU at Lynnbrook.
"Hello, this is Dr. Panzella. I just wanted to check on Mrs. Thompson."
"Who? " said the ward clerk.
Gin was suddenly queasy. "Harriet Thompson. Dr. Conway's patient.
She had a hemothorax and was on a respira, " "Oh, yeah. Here it is.
Sorry, Dr. Panzella. I just came on. She was pronounced a couple of hours ago. Nine-thirty-four, to be exact. Dr. Conway was here. " Gin felt her throat constrict. She managed a faint "Thank you" and hung up.
She pounded a fist on the mattress. Damn, damn, damn! Harriet Thompson's death certificate probably would list her cause of death as respiratory failure due to hemothorax due to fractured ribs due to complications of accidental trauma.