The Promise of Stardust (43 page)

“Is it likely Elle Beaulieu will miscarry this time?” Jake asked.

“Probably not because of the APS. We're treating her with heparin, a blood-thinning agent. When diagnosed, the women rarely miscarry as a result.”

The subtext of Clint's words was that Elle could miscarry because she suffered a devastating brain injury. For Christ's sake, she couldn't even blink. As I'd left her hospital room that morning, the nurse was putting ointment into Elle's eyes to prevent them from drying out.

Clint and Jake were explaining the basic issues complicating Elle's pregnancy. Was the APS dangerous to Elle or just to the baby? Yes. Maybe. Not yet. APS could shut down any of her organ systems. Of course her brain injury could do the same, was, in fact, more likely to start shutting down her body systems.

I hated all of this prancing around in the courtroom. I wanted to get up and make the judge understand that my child had a right to fight for his or her life, without Jake, without Clint, without anyone intervening.

But I focused on the nuances of the testimony, on the reactions of the judge, and on key words. There were two forms of the disease, basic and catastrophic. Elle had basic APS, but
catastrophic
is an emotional word. In catastrophes like earthquakes, floods, and tornadoes, didn't we focus on that miracle survivor, the one pulled from the rubble a week later? Well, I was digging through the rubble of Elle's life, trying to save our child, her child, my child.

“And if she developed the catastrophic form, could it be treated?” Jake asked.

They were already treating her preemptively.

“How likely is it that the catastrophic form would cause Elle's death prior to the point her baby was ready to be born?”

“APS mortality rates in pregnancy are not well documented,” Clint answered. “But with it, she has an increased risk of preeclampsia, which might require premature delivery. She could develop blood clots in her legs or her lungs, that sort of thing.”

“But these are just risk factors?”

“Yes,” Clint said. “Risk factors.”

“Thank you. That's all.” Jake sat down and leaned over to whisper in my ear. “Whatever damage your mother's attorney does on cross, I'll fix on redirect.”

I nodded. If only I could fix the damage done to Elle.

“Mr. Klein, do you have questions for Dr. Everest?” the judge asked.

“Yes, Your Honor.” My mother's attorney stood, and after tapping two pencils like drumsticks on his stack of papers, he said, “Doctor, during Elle's last pregnancy—which ended February second of this year—she had complications from her APS, didn't she?”

Clint studied his hands. “She was admitted to the ICU for two days because she lost a large volume of blood, but I don't believe it was from the APS directly. She was taking blood-thinning agents. Unexpectedly, she went into preterm labor and delivered at home. Because of the blood thinners, she hemorrhaged.”

“Actually, she nearly hemorrhaged to death, didn't she?”

I drew a breath, remembering. On that night, on our kitchen floor, I saw more blood than I'd ever seen outside of a hospital.

Jake put his hand on my shoulder. “You okay?” he whispered.

I nodded and tried to stay present in the courtroom. I looked up and saw my mother staring at me. And unlike Jake, she didn't look concerned. Her expression was pointed, almost accusatory.

“Her blood loss easily could have been fatal,” Clint said.

I followed Jake to a high-rise down in the Old Port. The contemporary exterior contrasted with the gentleman's-club decor of the inner offices. Leather-bound law texts lined the shelves.

“The cross-examination didn't go well,” I said.

Jake hadn't fixed the damage Klein leveled on cross-examination, and I couldn't sit still while we reviewed the past two hours. Instead I paced the generous expanse between his desk and a conference table at the other side of the room.

“It could have gone worse,” he said. “If she hadn't gotten pneumonia or kidney problems already, it could have gone better.”

“Klein made it sound like Elle … Hell, everything he pulled out of Clint was the truth. It's been twenty-six fucking days, and she's already had pneumonia and suffered kidney damage. We need another fourteen weeks, twenty weeks would be better. The APS could kill her or the baby—”

“Stop. I realize you're worried about her medical challenges. But the primary legal issue is what Elle would want done on her behalf. We don't have the best evidence to make our case on that point. We need something substantial in writing that backs up your contention. Have you found anything in her diaries?”

“Nothing besides what you already know. I decided to fight for the baby based on our conversations over the years.”

Jake studied his hands. “We need more. We're out of time. You have to let me help you go through the diaries.”

I wasn't about to tell Jake that either Elle or my mother might have done a Kevorkian on Alice McClure. He might find another confession of matricide. “I don't know what happened to the baby ones.”

“Matt—”

“They. Are. Private.” I glared at Jake, letting him know I meant business. “Besides, I don't think there's anything in them.”

“Your life is already front-page news all over the world. Under the circumstances, maybe you should forgo your First Amendment right to privacy and let me see them.” He offered an engaging grin, making me think that First Amendment bullshit was supposed to be his idea of a joke.

I shook my head.

His office phone rang and he picked up the receiver. “Yeah. Put her through. Dr. Clarke, we're expecting you to testify in thirty—” Pause. “I see.” Jake gave Blythe the phone number of the courthouse and instructed her to call it once she was free.

“What?” I said.

“She's tied up with a complicated delivery. And another of her patients was just admitted with preterm labor or something.”

“She can't get to court?” I asked.

“No. And I want her to testify before you. We set up possibility. The judge sees the ultrasound of a baby. Then we hit him with how much you love your wife and how much the two of you wanted a child,” he said as he laid out index cards in order. “Then I want to set the framework for the fetal guardianship issue. Timing will be important; otherwise, it would smack of desperation. I want it to be a deliberate card we play.”

“Meaning?”

“After I question you, I'll call Father Meehan. The Catholic Church teaches life begins at conception, and you and Elle are Catholic. Therefore, fighting for this baby becomes part of your constitutional right to practice your religion. I then ask the judge to give you guardianship of your unborn baby, protecting that life, acting on Elle's behalf to protect her unborn child, exercising
her
right to practice her religion. It's a little transparent, but constitutionally, it could work. At the very least it would be grounds for an appeal. We could also base an appeal on the Texas advanced directive. There's no way the judge should be considering it. In Texas, the law prohibits the removal of a pregnant woman's life support. If the appeal fails, we can file a cert petition. And that's all we need. If it goes before the Supreme Court, chances are we'll have time for that baby of yours to be born alive.”

“What if the Supreme Court denies the cert petition?”

Jake smiled and shook his head. “Did anyone ever tell you you worry too much? Have a little faith in me. I told you, I can pull this off. Let's go back to court and see what we can do about Dr. Clarke's absence.”

“One more thing, I forgot to tell you I got a letter from Carol Wentworth. You remember her?”

“Of course.”

I slid the letter across the desk to him.

He picked it up and scanned it. “The
U.S
. attorney general?”

   44   

If I ever marginalized a woman, it was Carol, but I didn't intend to and I didn't believe I was doing it at the time. I honestly thought she and I could have the kind of marriage that was built on mutual respect. We were good together. Nevertheless, I didn't tell my fiancée that I'd run into Elle in Maine, and that my few hours with her cast doubts on my decision to get married. Carol didn't need to know. I would only hurt her if I eased my conscience by confessing that I'd kissed Elle.

Besides, we didn't do anything, not really, and a few doubts were normal. Logically, I could recite a dozen reasons to marry Carol. Emotionally, my tether to Elle unraveled them one by one, but I convinced myself this connection was simply a remnant of childhood and, as she said, lust.

All right, I loved her.

Over the next few months Elle grew more distant, almost detached. When we spoke on the phone, she avoided talking about herself. Hell, she didn't even ask many personal questions about me. We talked about work, hers and mine. If I mentioned Carol, Elle seemed to find reasons to get off the phone. I told myself we were growing apart, and that maybe we should; after all, I was getting married. Still, I hated that marriage meant cutting Elle out of my life. Or worse, that maybe she was cutting herself out.

In December, Phil Grey paged me at work and asked if we could get together while he was in Manhattan. I was on call all weekend, but first thing Monday morning he met me at the hospital. He shook my hand. “You didn't tell me winter in Maine came on November first.”

“Trust me,” I said. “You won't see real winter until February and March.”

“March is springtime.”

“In Maine,
May
is springtime,” I said.

“So, you wouldn't be interested in joining the practice with me?” He wagged his head toward the door. “Let's go get breakfast and talk. I'm buying.”

In a diner not far from the hospital, Phil launched into a prepared list of reasons why he was recruiting me to join him as soon as I finished my residency. One, the junior member of the practice died three months after Phil joined it. Two, the one he was hired to replace was diagnosed with an early onset of Parkinson's, and the guy hadn't done surgery in four months. Phil had done every surgery since he moved north. In essence, he was the solo surgeon. He could continue for a while, but not forever. In spite of his crack about the weather, Phil and his wife loved the area, and she was pregnant, so they wanted to make a nest and line it.

I told him Carol was vehement about staying in New York, and he said that he understood, but, hey, just go talk it over with her anyway. I was his first choice. He gave me a week to decide.

Seven hours later Carol came into the bedroom and flipped on the light. “You didn't sleep all day, did you?” she asked.

I grabbed her waist, pulled her down on the bed with me, and kissed her with sincerity mixed with more than a moderate dose of lust. “I spent most of the day running along the reservoir and thinking. Phil Grey stopped by this morning.”

“Phil? How is he? Wait, let me guess, he got sick of that sleepy little town already, and he's in the city to look for a job.” She pulled away and walked to the closet. “Here,” she said, tossing me a pressed shirt. “Dinner with my parents tonight, remember?”