The Promise of Stardust (33 page)

Keisha made a pitiful attempt to smile and eased back into the chair next to Elle's bed.

We made small talk for a few minutes before I began to vent about Adam, his visit, the rain, and his tirade at the restaurant. “I hate that son of a bitch,” I said. “Did she ever tell you about him?”

Keisha blinked a few times before she spoke. “I knew she'd lived with someone, but I didn't remember his name. What is it you really want to ask me?”

Is he right?
Was I placing an inhuman burden on Elle by asking her to try to hold on for months? But instead of saying that, I shrugged.

Keisha put her hand on mine in a consoling gesture. “Here's what I recall she said about him. He reminded her of you. Don't look so horrified, Matthew. She said he possessed some of the same qualities. He was smart enough to keep her on her toes, and they were friends first. But he
wasn't
you. And although the relationship was serious, it didn't have the substance to last. But that's not what you want to know either, is it? You want me to tell you that you are right and that he is wrong.”

I lowered my gaze. “After talking to him,
listening
to him, I don't know anymore.”

“Well, I do. I'm biased. I want the baby to live, but that is not enough for me to recuse myself,” she said. “You see, I have a theory. Do you want the long version or the short one?”

“The middle-of-the-road one,” I said. Keisha was a storyteller by nature, and sometimes she went off on dissertation-length tangents. Elle said it was a hazard of academia. Faculty had a captive audience in the classroom, so sometimes that led to the delusion that every story professors told kept their students rapt.

Keisha shifted in her seat, and I could see her composing her explanation. “Did you know Elle had a sixteen-year-old girl in her senior honors class last fall?”

I nodded. “Julie something. Elle said she was gifted.”

“She's a little mousy but obviously she has a fine mind. She came into Elle's office while the two of us were chatting one day, and after some discussion and some rambling about an incomprehensible mathematical formula, Julie excused herself. Elle sat back in her chair and told me how in between worlds she felt at that age. Like Julie, she had the intellect to outwit most of her peers, sometimes her professors, but she never felt like an equal to the other students, not in high school, not in college, not even in graduate school. Particularly not with
Adam
. At least not for a long, long time.”

I leaned forward. “She had a hard time fitting in when she was a kid,” I said, “but …”

“Exactly—
but
—she started to grow up. She went to Princeton. She met a much older guy. And she liked him because was older, and he didn't seem to mind that she was a little naive about some things. He mentored her. She let him have the upper hand.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because she outgrew him. She matured and she became a confident woman who knew what she wanted and knew how to fight and achieve her goals. She is …” Keisha swallowed hard. “She was a whole person. All of those things I talk about in women's studies courses … Elle was the perfect example.”

“Okay,” I said. “But how—”

“How does that make you right and Adam wrong?”

I nodded.

“He continued to discount her opinions. She'd had enough. But she told me once that even when you were children, you respected her. I saw that. You didn't always agree on everything, but you always listened. Do you believe she would want to save the baby?”

“Yes,” I said.

“And that's how I know you're making the right decision. For you, it is a matter of respect. Besides, I knew her, too. And she would never surrender—even like this.”

   33   

“The Mass has ended. Go in peace,” Father Meehan said.

“Thanks be to God,” we responded like a pack of brainwashed peasants.

Rote memory is a wondrous thing. I could make it through an entire Mass and not have to think once. I could recite prayers from my childhood. I could zone out during the homily and the Liturgy of the Eucharist, standing and kneeling in a tidal rhythm.

God. If it took God, I'd bow to God.

But afterward I felt depleted, and I sat there wondering if the good priest who was at the front of the church shaking the hands of the devoted noted that I'd fulfilled my part of the bargain—at least for this Sunday.

I stood, dusted myself off as if I'd grown roots into the hard oak pew, and then headed up to the altar to light a candle. I should do that. Twelve days. It had only taken me twelve days to become a hypocrite. I was looking for the taper to light the flame when I realized that, not only were all the candles ablaze, they were electric. What a sham. Should I flick off one and then relight it? It was stupid anyway.

“I can't even get altar servers these days,” Father Meehan said, walking up the central aisle. “Good to see you here.” Then he began snuffing out the real candles, the ones illuminating the altar. “How is Elle today?”

“The same.” I pointed at the collection of prelit candles. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“It's kind of like a gas fireplace, don't you think?”

“Or an electric one. It gives the illusion. It's all smoke and mirrors, isn't it?”
Did I say that last part aloud? Shit. I'm tired
. I'd spent most of the night replaying Adam's argument.

“You realize you don't need to light a candle to pray. It's simply symbolic,” Father Meehan said.

“Right,” I said.

“As for the smoke and mirrors, it's called faith.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I'm trying.”

He took the wine and chalice back into the back room. “Come along.”

I followed. Can you say “sheep”? The analogy was befitting. Sheep. Shepherd.

“I can run all the clichés past you,” he said, as if he could read minds in this house of magic. “Ask God for help, and He'll answer you. I can tell you that faith is a gift. I can direct you to certain passages in the Bible. Instead I'm just going to tell you to try to open your mind. Have a conversation with Him. Or try to.”

“Sure,” I said.

“How's the baby doing?”

“Thirty weeks to go. In sixteen, we have a chance.”

“That's what you're like, isn't it? You are a numbers man. You want measurable parameters for your life. Did you ever believe in anything that wasn't a number?”

“In Elle. My faith was in her.”

He exhaled loudly. “Well, that's a start. You believe in love, and God is the purest love.”

   34   

Even when Elle was a kid playing astronaut, she never counted down. She always counted up. “It's like saying you're fixed in the past, and you're running out of time. Every moment is only the beginning of something new,” she'd say.

As much as I wanted to embrace her optimism, the steady decline of her body belied my attempt. Yes, the baby was sixteen days older, ten weeks gestation, and all indicators were that he or she was thriving. But how? Elle wasn't the glowing pregnant woman. She was counting down.

The reality was seeping into my emotional crevasses. I had to keep busy. Phil told me not to worry about our surgical practice. D'Amato's group was still covering, but I was taking call most nights and the ER summoned me usually once or twice. ICU was easier. All I had to do was walk out of Elle's room to check on patients.

I'd acquired one of the foldout chairs, which converted into something of a bed, permitting me to recline. I rationalized I was sleeping an hour here and there.

“Why don't you go home tonight?” Jillian Waters, the ICU nurse manager, asked me. “We'll phone if there's a problem.”

I shook my head.

“You don't trust us to take care of her?”

“It's not that.”

“What then?”

“I don't know,” I said, but I did know. I was sleep deprived and grieving, and if I were in my right mind, I'd have told myself to leave; this paranoia was insane. No one was going to turn off Elle's life support in my absence. “I'm not seeing patients except on call. I have to give Phil a little backup,” I said, not feeling even a little a bit guilty for my white lie.

“You're putting holes in walls, and the night shift says you
aren't
sleeping. You've spent fourteen out of the past sixteen nights here. You need to go home.”

But I didn't go home. Our house wasn't home without Elle. Maybe I should sell the farmhouse. I couldn't imagine living there without her, and besides, I needed the money.

Our medical insurer was balking about coverage. Why should they continue to pay thousands of dollars a day for a woman certified as brain-dead? Depending on how much care she needed, a month in ICU could run close to a million dollars. True, Phil wasn't going to charge for his surgical services. And the hospital might give me some kind of professional courtesy, but I couldn't expect Clint and the other intensivists to forgo their fees. In eight months the bill could easily exceed—God, I didn't even want to think about it, especially if she had more complications. We had some savings, but nothing close to what I'd need. And although I knew Hank would help, I doubted he had that much in the bank.