Drowsily he stared at the ringing phone. Then he picked up the receiver. It was Aaron.
"Come down for breakfast, Michael."
"Is she on the plane yet, Aaron?"
"She's just left the hospital. As I believe I told you last night, she'll have a layover. I doubt she'll reach the hotel before two o'clock. The funeral begins at three. Look, if you won't come down we'll send something up, but you must eat."
"Yes, send it up," he said. "And Aaron. Where is this funeral?"
"Michael, don't bolt on me after you've finished. That wouldn't be fair to anyone."
"No, I'm not going to do that, Aaron. Believe me. But I just want to know. Where is the funeral?"
"Lonigan and Sons. Magazine Street."
"Oh, yeah, do I ever know that place." Grandmother, grandfather, and his father, too, all buried from Lonigan and Sons. "Don't worry, Aaron, I'll be right here. Come up and keep me company if you want. But I've got to get started."
He took a quick shower, put on fresh clothes, and came out of the bathroom to find his breakfast waiting for him under a series of high polished silver domes on a lace-covered tray. The old sandwiches were gone. And the bed was made. There were fresh flowers by the window. He smiled and shook his head. He had a flash of Petyr van Abel in some fine little chamber in the seventeenth-century Motherhouse in Amsterdam. Was Michael a member now? Would they enfold him with all these trappings of security and legitimacy and safety? And what would Rowan think of that? There was so much he had to explain to Aaron about Rowan ...
Drinking his first cup of coffee absently, he opened the next folder, and began to read.
Eighteen
IT WAS FIVE thirty in the morning as Rowan finally headed to the airport, Slattery driving the Jaguar for her, her eyes glassy and red as she instinctively and anxiously watched the traffic, uncomfortable to have given over the control of the car to anyone else. But Slattery had agreed to keep the Jag in her absence, and he ought to get used to it, she figured. And besides, all she wanted now was to be in New Orleans. The hell with the rest.
Her last evening at the hospital had gone almost as planned. She had spent hours making the rounds with Slattery, introducing him to patients, nurses, interns, and residents, doing what she could to make the transition less painful for everyone involved. It had not been easy. Slattery was an insecure and envious man. He made random deprecating remarks under his breath continuously, ridiculing patients, nurses, and other doctors in a manner that suggested Rowan was in complete sympathy with him when she was not. There was a deep unkindness in him towards those he believed to be inferior. But he was far too ambitious to be a bad doctor. He was careful, and smart.
And much as Rowan disliked turning it all over to him, she was glad he was there. The feeling was growing ever stronger in her that she wasn't coming back here. She tried to remind herself that there was no reason for such a feeling. Yet she couldn't shake it. The special sense told her to prepare Slattery to take over for her indefinitely, and that was what she had done.
Then at eleven P.M., when she was scheduled to leave for the airport, one of her patients--an aneurysm case--began to complain of violent headaches and sudden blindness. This could only mean the man was hemorrhaging again. The operation which had been scheduled for the following Tuesday--to be performed by Lark--had to be performed by Rowan and Slattery right then.
Rowan had never gone into surgery more distracted; even as they were tying on her sterile gown, she had been worried about her delayed flight to New Orleans, worried about the funeral, worried that somehow she'd be trapped for hours during the layover in Dallas, until after her mother had been lowered into the ground.
Then looking around the OR, she had thought, This is the last time. I'm not going to be in this room again, though why I don't know.
At last the usual curtain had fallen, cutting her off from past and future. For five hours, she operated with Slattery beside her, refusing to allow him to take over though she knew he wanted to do it.
She stayed in recovery with her patient for an additional forty-five minutes. She didn't like leaving this one. Several times she placed her hands on his shoulders and did her little mental trick of envisioning what was going on inside the brain. Was she helping him or merely calming herself? She had no idea. Yet she worked on him mentally, as hard as she had ever worked on anyone, even whispering aloud to him that he must heal now, that the weakness in the wall of the artery was repaired.
"Long life to you, Mr. Benjamin," she whispered under her breath. Against her closed eyes, she saw the brain circuitry. A vague tremor passed through her. Then, slipping her hand over his, she knew he would be all right.
Slattery was in the doorway, showered and shaved, and ready to take her to the airport.
"Come on, Rowan, get out of here, before anything else happens!"
She went to her office, showered in the small private bathroom, put on her fresh linen suit, decided it was much too early to call Lonigan and Sons in New Orleans, even with the time difference, and then walked out of University Hospital, with a lump in her throat. So many years of her life, she thought, and the tears hovered. But she didn't let them come.
"You all right?" Slattery had asked as he pulled out of the parking lot.
"Oh, yeah," she said. "Just tired." She was damned sick of crying. She'd done more of it in the last few days than in all her life.
Now, as he made the left turn off the highway at the airport, she found herself thinking that Slattery was about as ambitious as any doctor she'd ever met. She knew quite emphatically that he despised her, and that it was for all the simple, boring reasons--that she was an extraordinary surgeon, that she had the job he coveted, that she might soon be back.
A debilitating chill passed over her. She knew she was picking up his thoughts. If her plane crashed, he could take her place forever. She glanced at him, and their eyes met for a second, and she saw the flush of embarrassment pass over him. Yes, his thoughts.
How many times in the past had it happened that way, and so frequently when she was tired? Maybe her guard was down when she was sleepy, and this evil little telepathic power could assert itself wantonly, and serve up to her this bitter knowledge whether she wanted it or not. It hurt her. She didn't want to be near him.
But it was a good thing that he wanted her job, a good thing that he was there to take it so that she could go.
It struck her very clearly now that, much as she had loved University, it wasn't important where she practiced medicine. It could be any well-equipped medical center in which the nurses and technicians could give her the backup she required.
So why not tell Slattery she wasn't coming back? Why not end the conflict inside him for his sake? The reason was simple. She didn't know why she felt so strongly that this was a final farewell. It had to do with Michael; it had to do with her mother; but it was as purely irrational as anything she'd ever felt.
Before Slattery even stopped at the curb, she had the door open. She climbed out of the car and gathered up her shoulder bag.
Then she found herself staring at Slattery as he handed her the suitcase from the trunk. The chill passed over her again, slowly, uncomfortably. She saw malice in his eyes. What an ordeal the night had been for him. He was so eager. And he disliked her so much. Nothing in her manner, either personally or professionally, evoked a finer response in him. He simply disliked her. She could taste it as she took the suitcase from his hand.
"Good luck, Rowan," he said, with a metallic cheerfulness. I hope you don't come back.
"Slat," she said, "thank you for everything. And there's something else I should tell you. I don't think ... Well, there's a good possibility I may not come back."
He could scarcely conceal his delight. She felt almost sorry for him, watching the tense movement of his lips as he tried to keep his expression neutral. But then she felt a great wa
rm, wondrous delight herself.
"It's just a feeling," she said. (And it's great!) "Of course I'll have to tell Lark in my own time, and officially--"
"--Of course."
"But go ahead and hang your pictures on the office walls," she continued. "And enjoy the car. I guess I'll send for it sooner or later, but probably later. If you want to buy it, I'll give you the bargain of your life."
"What would you say to ten grand for it, cash, I know it's--"
"That will do it. Write me a check when I send you my new address." With an indifferent wave, she walked off towards the glass doors.
The sweet excitement washed over her like sunlight. Even sore-eyed and sluggishly weary, she felt a great sense of momentum. At the ticket desk, she specified first class, one way.
She drifted into the gift shop long enough to buy a pair of big dark glasses, which struck her as very glamorous, and a book to read--an absurd male fantasy of impossible espionage and relentless jeopardy, which seemed slightly glamorous too.
The New York Times said it was hot in New Orleans. Good that she had worn the white linen, and she felt pretty in it. For a few moments, she lingered in the lounge, brushing her hair, and taking care with the pale lipstick and cream rouge she hadn't touched in years. Then she slipped on the dark glasses.
Sitting in the plastic chair at the gate, she felt absolutely anchorless. No job, no one in the house in Tiburon. And Slat double-clutching Graham's car all the way back to San Francisco. You can have it, Doctor. No regret, no worry. Free.
Then she thought of her mother, dead and cold on a table at Lonigan and Sons, beyond the intervention of scalpels, and the old darkness crept over her, right amid the eerie monotonous fluorescent lights and the shining early morning air commuters with their briefcases and their blue all-weather suits. She thought of what Michael had said about death. That it was the only supernatural event most of us ever experience. And she thought that was true.