Treasures (33 page)

“Not really,” she replied, and then, curious, asked how he knew about it. “Did Eddy tell you?”

He smiled. “No, not Eddy. I get around. I hear things. And rumors float fast in my business.”

“Then you must have heard that we’re not interested. Not at all.”

“Not even enough to think it over?”

“We just dismissed the whole idea.”

“But they won’t just dismiss it, you may be sure. As soon as all their financing is arranged, they’ll be back. I know how these things work. And—”

“Martin,” she said, interrupting him, “we can’t think about anything. I can tell you that. It’s all too much to cope with, first our child, and then this impossible proposition. Davey’s suffered too much already.”

“You might welcome the money,” Martin said gently, “especially if—”

So he, too, meant, if Peggy never recovers.

“Well, think it over,” Martin advised again as he left.

She had been so sure of Davey’s acceptance that his reply that night to Martin’s offer on behalf of Peggy was
no surprise. What did astonish her was his reaction to Martin’s other remarks.

“Lara, I don’t care anymore. If they really want the plant, let them take it. Give us some money for it and good-bye to it.”

“I can’t believe you’re saying that!” she cried.

“Why not? What does it matter? If Peggy were well, you can darn well believe it would be a different story. But as it is, I don’t give a damn.”

But you will, in spite of everything, she thought. Yes, you will. Yet she said no more. Poor man. Leave him alone.

And she went outside to sit on a bench in the yard. It began to rain, although the evening sun was still shining; great, slow drops fell glinting and spattered on the stone walk. They darkened the steps next door, where the child had fallen; it seemed years since that night.

All her senses were tender, as if each had been wounded and could shrink when touched. The wet stone smelled sharp and bitter. A car went by with a blast of hideous rock music. In the house Sue and her best friend Amy were having one of their noisy, though fortunately infrequent, fights. Dear Sue. These had been dreadful months for her too, with all the gaiety gone from the family.

Then, mercifully, the silence flowed back, and she closed her eyes, feeling the soft rain on her face, not minding it.

Why us? she thought. Why me? And the answer came, as clear as the sound of the rain or the wind in the new-leaved trees: Why not you?

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

T
hey took Peggy, then, to a new place, a smaller one surrounded by pleasant, expensive trees; otherwise, nothing was different, for when at the end of the day they walked away from her, she was still lying in a bed connected to monitors and tubes. Lara asked no further questions, and Davey, too, had gone silent. It was as if they both had learned that there were no answers. Passively, they stood gazing down at their child while Connie took charge, talking in turn to doctors, to nurses, and to administrators.

“If only she were to die,” Davey murmured once. And Lara knew that the words had come unbidden; he was quite probably not even aware that he had spoken the thought aloud. She took his hand and kept holding it as they walked out to Connie’s car.

“You’ll stay with us here, of course,” said Connie, addressing Lara. “Davey can fly in weekends. We’ll keep the plane available.”

“Oh, but I can’t. There’s Sue at home.”

“Bring her here,” Connie said promptly.

“School isn’t out yet. Besides, we can’t disrupt her life
any more. She’s scared, she’s been through enough as it is. I will accept the offer of the plane rides, though. It’s a godsend, Connie. Martin and you are godsends.”

So a routine began. As the plane descended toward the Westchester Airport, Lara, looking down, would see her sister, a bright red spot or blue or white, waiting and waving. Then there would be an embrace, an anxious question, and an answer.

“I went yesterday. The same.”

The hospital visit would follow, and that, too, would be the same. Lunch at Cresthill would be brief so that Lara could fly home early.

One day while at the lunch table, it occurred to her that she had not seen Thérèse for weeks, and she asked why.

Connie hesitated. “I thought—to tell the truth, I thought it might be too hard for you to see her.”

Lara’s eyes filled. “Oh!” she cried. “Oh, the world mustn’t stop because of Peggy! Do call her. I want to see her.”

When Thérèse came, Lara took her on her lap. The child, wriggling, turned to look up at her.

“Where’s Peggy?” she demanded.

“Peggy’s sick, darling.”

“When is she going to get better?”

“We’re not sure yet.”

“Oh. Can I have that cake?”

Lara had lost her appetite, and most of her dessert was still on the plate. “Of course,” she said.

Connie was feeling a particular shame. How often on behalf of her own little girl had she not envied the
beauty of her sister’s child! And here sat her Thérèse, healthy and bright, on Lara’s lap; what must be Lara’s pain as she made the comparison?

They were to drive to the city that day, and Lara was to fly home from LaGuardia Airport instead of Westchester.

“Thérèse has to see the pediatrician for her regular checkup, and I ordered some summer things on Madison Avenue. Anyway, a little change, a little window-shopping, will do you good,” Connie told Lara.

These errands accomplished, they stopped to give Thérèse an ice-cream treat and then walked slowly back up Fifth Avenue, on the Park side in the shade, to the apartment. Suddenly, nearing the museum, they stopped short.

“The man on the bench,” Connie whispered. “Oh, my Lord, look, it’s Richard.”

Her first impulse was to cross the avenue. It was one thing, strangely touching really, to receive his birthday and his Christmas cards, but another thing actually to see the man again. After her moment’s hesitation it was too late to turn away, for he had recognized them and stood up.

“Well, Connie, this is a surprise.”

“How are you, Richard? You remember Lara, of course? And you’ve never met Thérèse. Darling, say hello to Richard. He’s a friend of Mommy’s.”

There! Hadn’t she managed that smoothly? But then awkwardness set in. Since one couldn’t very well just walk away now, something more had to be said, and
Connie said the most obvious thing that rushed into her head.

“Lara’s visiting from Ohio.”

When, murmuring some politeness, he acknowledged this fact by turning toward Lara, Connie observed him and was astonished at what she saw. His shirt, which was open at the neck, was plainly dirty. He wore a cotton jacket, but no tie; the jacket, too, was soiled, and he needed a shave; an unkempt blond growth of hair, about three days’ worth, glinted in the light.

Moved by concern and curiosity, she asked him what he was doing. Was he still in advertising?

“I got fed up with that place. Actually, I’m between jobs. I’m taking a vacation.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” she returned brightly, and was irritated by her own fatuous answer. Still, one couldn’t, after all, expect to feel completely at ease in an encounter with one’s former husband. She smiled; the smile also was too bright.

“But you haven’t changed, Connie.”

“Not in seven years?”

“Well, you do have this lovely girl. Thérèse,” he mused. “You always did like anything that was French. And she could be a French child, with her dark bangs and that dress.”

Indeed, the dress had been bought in Paris. He noticed everything. He always had. But what had happened to him?

Lara, too, was conscious of something very strange. And turning up her wrist to show her watch, she reminded Connie of the time.

“Oh, Lara, your plane, of course! Goodness, we have to rush! Sorry, Richard, but—”

He nodded. “Go ahead, don’t be late.” And giving a little wave like a salute, he sat down again on the bench.

They crossed the avenue. Connie, looking back, saw that he was still sitting there, not watching them. His head was sunk on his chest, and he was apparently just staring at the ground.

“What can be wrong with him?” she cried. “Those terribly sad eyes! He looks sick, like a sad, sick beggar.” And Connie shuddered.

“Drinking, do you think? He looked as if he might be.”

“He never drank. Never. But I suppose …” She had no idea what had happened.

They walked on without speaking anymore. Lara was pretending not to have stared quickly at Connie and then looked as quickly away. She’s wondering, Connie thought, what my feelings are. Well, what are they? Disconnected memories speed through my head: those first vivid days in Texas and the euphoria; the child I destroyed would certainly be different from the one whose hand is now so tightly held in mine … how queerly it all unfolds … poor gentle Richard—what’s happened to him?

The car was already waiting at the curb for Lara. When the driver opened the door, Connie laid a hand on Lara’s arm, detaining her.

“Lara … try to take care of yourself. Did you ever think living could be so damned hard?”

“It’s just as well we didn’t think.”

Connie sighed. Bad memories … Richard … Peggy on the hospital bed … the eerie stillness in that room …

She sighed again and kissed her sister, saying only, “Get home safely,” then stood there watching while the car merged with traffic on Fifth Avenue.

“If by some miracle Peggy should be well again”—too often Lara had caught herself saying or thinking the words, and had reprimanded herself because sensible people didn’t count on miracles. That age was past.

And yet it happened.

It was Connie who witnessed it. One afternoon in the third week when she was making her regular stop at the hospital, Connie saw Peggy open her eyes. As, still in a state of shock—“I shall be shocked for the rest of my life when I think of it”—she described the happening, the child’s eyes had opened just long enough for the two pairs of eyes to meet in mutual astonishment. Then Peggy’s had closed again.

“I don’t know how I even had enough strength in my legs to run down the hall. I think I just screamed at the first nurse I met. And the doctors came running, and more nurses. Can you imagine what went on? The excitement? Then I telephoned you, Lara, and you know the rest.”

Within the hour Martin’s plane flew to Ohio. Davey left the plant where he had been discussing an order from a southern hospital, Sue left school, and Lara, trembling and laughing, joined them at the airport.

Before they arrived at the hospital in the early evening, Peggy had awakened for a second time.

“Mommy,” she had whispered. Her frightened gaze had swept the room, and finding the faces all strange except for Aunt Connie’s and Uncle Martin’s, not finding Mommy, she had begun to cry.

Connie stroked her hair. “Mommy’s coming soon. She’s on the way,” she whispered over and over.

And Mommy came. By now they had Peggy propped against pillows, half sitting and half lying. Lara came rushing. She saw no one, spoke to no one; the little crowd parted to let her through, and she fell on her knees beside the bed. Davey, behind her, reached down and curved Peggy’s arms around the mother’s neck.

Nurses standing in the background cried, too, and a young male intern on his first week of service had to turn away.

“How do you explain this?” Martin asked Dr. Bayer. “It’s incredible, a miracle.”

“Well, it’s so rare a happening that you might well call it one,” was the response. “The swellings that come with head injuries seldom take this long to subside. This coma has lasted an extraordinarily long time. Extraordinary.”

“When may we take her home?” asked Davey.

The doctor shook his head. “She won’t be ready for a long time yet. We can’t be sure how much of her mental function has been restored, how much memory or cognition. We don’t even know whether she can walk. You’ll need to keep her here for extensive therapy.” As the parents’ faces fell, he added kindly, “However, what’s
very much in her favor is her age. So we don’t in any way mean to sound discouraging, but only to counsel patience.”

And so the families entered the next phase.

Peggy was to spend, it was estimated, another three to eight weeks in intensive care; then if all went well, she might be taken home and brought back every day for rehabilitation therapy, which would take another two to three months.

“Oh, but we live in Ohio,” Lara cried out in dismay. “How can we—”

Davey began a proposal, “Maybe there’s a place—” to which Martin at once objected.

“Davey, there’s nothing like this anywhere near where you live. You know that. She’ll stay with us, and Connie will drive her over here every day for her treatment.”

Lara and Davey looked toward each other, she reading his mind: I hate to take favors.

“I know you think it’s too much to accept,” she told him in front of everyone, “but you would do it for them, Davey,” and finished mentally,
absurd as it seems to think of Martin Berg’s ever needing a favor.

“Of course,” Davey said.

“Good,” Martin answered promptly. “And the weekend offer of the plane still stands.”