"Michael. Just answer the question, please."
"I was born prematurely, with permanent nerve damage in my foot."
"Was it bad when you were young?"
Her voice was soft.
"Not good."
She lifted her head and saw the gentle, almost soothing expression on his face. He'd have made a great interviewer, she thought, except there was an undeniable tension between them, a tension that was not all together unpleasant.
"You say you were born premature," he continued.
"Were there other complications?"
"Not so fast," she replied.
"My turn. When did you start playing basketball?"
"I don't know. When I was six or seven, I guess."
"Were you one of those kids who played all the time, who lived on the playground?"
"It was the best place to be," he replied.
"What do you mean?"
Michael did not answer.
"What were your other complications, Sara?"
"Lung infections," she said quickly. "So when did you start playing the piano?"
"When I was eight."
"Your parents hired a music teacher?"
A humorless smile came to his lips.
"No."
148 Haiian Coben
"Then who-"
"I think you'd better leave," he said.
"Let's change the subject."
"No."
"But I was just going to ask "
"I know what you were going to ask," Michael interrupted.
"How hard is this for you to understand? I don't want my personal life splashed all over the papers. Period."
"I just wanted to know the name of your piano teacher," she said.
"I thought you would want to give your teacher credit."
"Bullshit, Sara.
"Let's change the subject' is just another way of saying you want to try to attack from another angle. You figure if you keep probing, eventually you'll get what you want no matter what the cost."
"And what are the costs, Michael? Your story could give hope to thousands of children who are being abused "
"Jesus, how low will you stoop to get this story?"
"Don't flatter yourself," she replied.
"I want every story I'm assigned."
"Have you no ethics?"
Sara's fists clenched.
"Spare me the morality play. We reporters are great as long as we're telling the world what a wonderful guy you are. We're your best pals when we pat you on the back and help you get more endorsement money.
But oh, if we dare to criticize, if we dare to dig deeper "
"My personal life is none of anyone's goddamn business."
"Afraid I'll shatter your precious image? Afraid I'll make you look like something other than Superman?"
She could see him wrestling with his temper.
"Good- bye, Sara," he said with too much control.
"I really didn't want to do this."
"Go ahead. Slam the door in my face. I'll be back." "No," he said, "you won't."
"We'll see."
And then he closed the door in her face just as Sam let loose with another sneeze. Her breathing was shallow from the effects of her cold.
Sara wheezed, each drawn breath a painful struggle. She turned away from the door and huffed off.
"The man is a major league pain in the ass."
Back home, she began to re-read his file. As the words passed in front of her, her anger softened and then evaporated. Could she really blame him for being so defensive? His childhood read like something out of Oliver Twist. She sat back, laced her fingers behind her head, and sneezed again. Her breathing was still labored, even worse than before.
She had tried to dismiss it, but the truth was becoming more and more apparent. With something near terror, Sara knew what she had to do.
She reached for the phone and called her father.
The next morning the doctors confirmed Sara's diagnosis.
"Pneumonia," John told his daughter from her hospital bed. There were tears in his eyes.
"Third time for you in the last two years, Sara." "I know," she said.
"You have to slow down a little." Sara glanced up at her father but said nothing.
"Are you feeling okay?" he asked.
"Fine," she replied.
"How long will I have to be here this time?"
"The doctors don't know, honey. I can stay with you for a while, if you'd like."
She nodded.
"I'd like that very much."
John Lowell left his daughter's bedside at nine p.m. Sara did not want him to go. Irrational as it might seem, she hated being alone at night in the hospital. Despite all the time she had spent in hospitals, Sara was still scared to close her eyes, afraid that someone or something might sneak up on her. She felt like some movie character left alone to survive a night in a haunted house. It was the hospital sounds that made her shudder, the sounds that reverberated louder in the blackness and stillness of the night: footsteps echoing much too loudly against the tile floors; the constant beeping, gurgling, and sucking noises of lifesaving machines; the random moan of pain; the scream of terror; the squeak of wheels; crying.
Feeling lonely, Sara strapped on her Walkman and began to sing a little ditty by the Police. When her voice grew too loud ("Don't Stand So... Don't Stand So... Don't Stand So Close To Me!") the nurse came in, gave her a scolding glare, and told her to quiet down.
"Sorry."
She took off the headset and flicked on the television. She was immediately greeted by a sportscaster's voice.
"Great move by Michael Silverman. What a game he's having, Tom."
"Sure is, Brent. Twenty-two points, ten rebounds, nine assists. He's playing like a man possessed."
"And Seattle calls time out. The score in this fourth game of the NBA Championship Series New York 87, the Sonics 85. We'll be back at Madison Square Garden in New York City in just a moment."
Though not much of a sports fan, Sam watched the remainder of the game.
The Knicks won by five points, tying up the NBA finals at two games apiece. The series would now move to Seattle for the next two games and then back to New York if a seventh and final game was needed. She continued to watch as the inane sportscasters spewed out as many chiches as they could come up with while reviewing the game highlights.
After that there were interviews with numerous players and coaches, which lasted for another hour or so.
"Looking for me?"
Sara turned quickly toward the door.
"Who?"
Michael stepped forward from the shadows. His hair was still wet from his post-game shower.
"Miss. Nancy Levin," he said simply.
"What?" "You asked about my piano teacher. Miss. Nancy Levin. She was the music teacher at Burnet Hill Elementary School."
Sara swallowed, not sure what to say.
"It's past visiting hours." "I know," he said.
"I promised the security guard two tickets to a game if he turned the other way. One of the advantages of fame. Mind if I take a seat?"
Sam tried to speak but had to settle for a shake of the head.
"Thanks," he said.
"I called your office this morning and your editor told me you had pneumonia. He said you get it pretty frequently."
She shrugged.
"So I thought I'd pay you a visit. I hope I'm not keeping you awake."
"Not at all," she replied, finding her voice at last, "but shouldn't you be celebrating with your teammates?"
"We don't celebrate until we win four games. We've only won two so far."
"Didn't the reporters want to interview you after the game?"
He nodded, smiling.
"But as you well know, I don't really like interviews."
"Not even post-game victory ones?"
"Actually, I like those."
"So?"
"So I wanted to come here and see you, okay?"
She turned away from his steady gaze, summoning some inner strength before turning back to face him.