Hidden Jewel (18 page)

"Yes, Daddy," I said when he paused for a breath. He was driving so fast now, it made my heart thunder like a train. I was worried because he seemed to be gazing at his thoughts and not at the road ahead of us.

"No one saw her up here, so she didn't go anywhere but the shack as far as we know. And she wasn't at the shack when we arrived. Right? Where would she go? Certainly not to see the Tates. She would only go home. Yes, that's it. She's home. She's snapped out of this insanity just in time. We'll be able to help Pierre now, won't we, Pearl?"

"Of course we will, Daddy. Don't you think you're driving too fast?"
"What?" He looked at me and then at the speedometer. "Oh. I didn't realize." He checked his rearview mirror. "Lucky we didn't get a ticket."
"Do you want me to drive, Daddy?"
"No, I'm fine. I'll watch what I'm doing." He lowered his shoulders and relaxed. "Terrible how they're letting that beautiful mansion rot in the swamps, isn't it? Terrible. Did you remember much?"
"No," I said. Mommy had once told me that Daddy would like to forget I had ever lived there. She kept very few pictures of us taken at Cypress Woods, and the ones she had were buried deep in drawers.
"Well, the oil wells are still going, making the Tates millionaires over and over. They were wealthy people before the wells. Money doesn't discriminate, unfortunately," he added bitterly. "I can't imagine what it's like working for Gladys Tate. But those oil riggers are something else, aren't they? A breed unto themselves, I hear."
"He seemed very nice," I said.
"Who? Oh. Oh, yes." Daddy smiled. "How did you like seeing your well? It must eat Gladys Tate's heart out that she can't stop you from collecting the income."
"It didn't look any different from the others, but Jack explained a lot about it to me."
Daddy smiled. "He was buttering up the boss, eh? Can't blame him. Especially when the boss is as pretty as you."
"He wasn't buttering me up, Daddy. He was just being polite and informative," I said. I turned away quickly so Daddy wouldn't see me blushing.
Jack's beautiful dark eyes flashed before me, and so did his soft smile. I couldn't recall meeting a young man who radiated so firm a sense of strength and yet appeared so gentle and compassionate. I had felt comfortable and safe when I was beside him. He worked with his hands and his muscles, but there was something poetic about his love for his work.
"You've got to be careful about who you meet, Pearl," Daddy said, turning serious. "Once a young man learns how wealthy you are, his interest in you will grow; only that might not be the sort of interest you need. Do you understand what I'm trying to say? I'm not as good at this as your mother is, I know."
"I understand, Daddy."
"I bet you do; I bet you do. I'm not worried about you. No, sir, not you."
He was quiet again, and then he started to repeat the mumbling. "She has to be at home. Has to. She must have come to her senses by now. She loves her family too much to stay away."
As we drew closer to New Orleans, the clouds closed up the holes of-blue between them until there was an ominous gray layer above us. The first drops hit the windshield as we went over the bridge and onto the city streets. The wind had kicked up as well. People were losing their umbrellas and rushing about to get to shelter. The downpour started before we reached the Garden District. It got so heavy that the windshield wipers couldn't clear a view.
"Damn this," Daddy moaned. He had to pull to the side for a few moments. The rain swept over us in sheets, pounding the roof and pounding at the windows.
But it was one of those quick summer storms. It slowed, and the wind calmed down. Daddy started for home again. By the time we reached our driveway, the sun had pierced the thin veil of trailing clouds and dropped rays of hope down over our camellias and magnolia trees. The cobblestone sidewalks glittered. It was as if Mother Nature had washed away the sadness staining our walls and grounds.
Daddy almost leaped out of the car before he brought it to a stop. I couldn't keep up with him. He rushed up the steps two at a time and to the front door. Aubrey was in the corridor speaking with one of our maids and turned with surprise as Daddy thrust the door open. I hurried behind him.
"Monsieur Andreas," Aubrey said, approaching. "My wife. Has she returned?" Daddy demanded quickly.
"No, monsieur." He shook his head and with troubled eyes gazed at me and then back at the maid, who turned to busy herself.
"Has she phoned? Did someone tell her about Pierre?" Daddy asked and nodded, hoping for a yes. But Aubrey could only disappoint him.
"Not that I know, Monsieur."
"Where's Mrs. Hockingheimer?" Daddy glanced up the stairway.
"She went to the hospital with Pierre, monsieur. The ambulance took them both."
"Ambulance?" Daddy released a small moan. Then he turned to me. I shrank into a tighter ball when I looked at those pathetic, sad eyes that showed his suffering.
"Where is she? Where could she have gone?" he cried, turning back to the butler. Aubrey stared, not sure what else to say or do.
"Daddy?" I tugged on his sleeve. "Daddy."
"What? Oh. Yes. We had better go directly to the hospital. Call me if you hear from Madame Andreas, Aubrey, Call the hospital immediately."
"Yes, monsieur."
We charged out the front door and down the steps. "Maybe she called the doctor first and went directly to the hospital," he said, wishing aloud. My silence brought him back to reality.
In no time we were driving into the hospital parking lot. The elderly volunteer at the front desk moved too slowly for Daddy when he asked where Pierre Dumas had been taken. He slapped the counter as she fumbled with the patient register. "Hurry, madame, please."
"Yes, yes," she said when she finally found Pierre's name. "He was just admitted. He's in ICU."
"Intensive care?" Daddy grimaced.
"Probably just a precaution, Daddy," I said. It was more like a prayer, too.
He took a deep breath and we hurried to the elevator. When we got to the ICU visitors' lounge, Mrs. Hockingheimer came out quickly to greet us.
"Oh, monsieur," she said, "thank God you're here."
Daddy held his breath, the words cluttering on his tongue.
"What's wrong? What's happened to Pierre, Mrs. Hockingheimer?" I asked breathlessly.
"He's gone into a deeper coma. The psychiatrist is upset. She says Pierre has suffered a serious relapse."
"Relapse?" Daddy said. "Back to what he was?"
"Even worse than he was originally," she said and began to cry. Daddy's face turned ashen. I felt my heart stop and then pound. Panic nailed my feet to the floor. My legs felt so numb I didn't think I had the power to move one in front of the other.
"Where is Dr. LeFevre?" Daddy asked finally.
"She's inside with Pierre. She came out and just went back in with another doctor," Mrs. Hockingheimer said. "A urologist."
I tried to swallow, but couldn't. Daddy's shoulders drooped. Although I was really feeling sick, I managed to find my voice. "Let's go talk to the doctor, Daddy."
We started toward the ICU, both of us terrified at what we were going to discover. Before we reached it, the door opened and Dr. LeFevre stepped out. She gazed at us, her eyes filled with confusion and disappointment.
"What's happening to my boy?" Daddy asked softly.
"I have a specialist in there examining him, Monsieur Andreas. He's suffering renal failure."
"What does that mean?" Daddy asked, gazing at me first. I knew he understood, but for the moment he was so nervous and excited he couldn't think.
"It's his kidneys, Daddy," I said.
"His kidneys aren't filtering out the waste, monsieur. They have shut down."
"Why? How can this happen?"
"I have seen this happen to patients who suffer prolonged coma, much more severe than what Pierre suffered, but his situation, which we thought was improving, suddenly took a turn for the worse and he went deeper into himself. Psychologically, monsieur," she said after a long pause, "your son is trying to get back with his twin brother."
"Get back. But . . . Jean is dead," Daddy said in a low voice.
"I know, monsieur. And so does Pierre." "But then he's . ."
"Willing himself to die," she said. ,
Her words fell like thunder over us. Daddy stared in disbelief.
"But how can someone . . . Surely that's not possible, Doctor," Daddy said.
"The mind is far more powerful than one might imagine, monsieur. People develop psychosomatic illnesses. Some people are unable to see even though there is nothing physiologically wrong with their eyes; others are unable to walk, even though there is nothing wrong with their legs." She paused and looked behind us. "Excuse me, Monsieur Andreas, but where is your wife? Where is the boy's mother?"
Daddy shook his head, the tears streaming down his cheeks.
"My mother has run away, Doctor," I said. "She left the house and sent us a letter. She blames herself for what's happened. We thought she had returned to her bayou home and went looking for her. We found evidence that she had gone there, but we couldn't find her, and when we learned about Pierre, we hurried back."
"I see. Well, I can't be sure, of course, but the boy might be thinking his mother blames him for his brother's death. I know he blames himself, and now that his mother is gone when he needs her . . well, you see how this complicates matters, monsieur."
"Yes, yes, I see. What can we do?"
"Let's see what sort of treatment Dr. Lasky is recommending first," she said as a short bald man emerged from the ICU. He was dressed in a suit and tie and looked more like a banker than a doctor. He had small features with dark brown beady eyes.
"This is the boy's father and sister," Dr. LeFevre said. "Dr. Lasky."
"How do you do, monsieur. I'm afraid your son is quite ill," he said getting right to the point. "He has produced less than fifty milliliters of urine during the last twenty-four hours, according to your nurse. This is anuria, which causes a serious buildup of waste. As I explained to Dr. LeFevre, he has acute renal failure, usually the result of a serious injury or some other underlying illness. She has explained the psychological problems to me, and I am in complete agreement with her diagnosis of the problem."
"What can we do?" Daddy asked quickly.
"Well, until the underlying cause is treated, we must direct ourselves to the physical threat. I have prescribed a diuretic, but if there is no change soon, I think dialysis will be necessary. Let's wait and see. This might pass."
"Can we see him?" I asked.
"Yes, of course," he said.
"Will he be all right?" Daddy demanded.
"Most people with acute renal failure eventually make a full recovery, but this case is unusual because of the psychological implications, monsieur. I'm afraid I cannot make precise predictions."
"Meaning what?" Daddy asked.
"If he remains unresponsive and doesn't produce and dispose of urine, we will put him on dialysis. But if his mind can shut down one organ. . ."
"Surely he will come out of this coma," Daddy said to Dr. LeFevre. She didn't reply. "He'll snap out of it. Won't he, Pearl?"
"Yes, Daddy," I said, so choked up, I could barely get enough breath to pronounce the words. "Let's go see him."
"Right," he said and started toward the ICU with me, refusing to face the dire possibilities that both doctors were presenting, but Dr. LeFevre seized his wrist and stopped him.
"It would help if your wife returned soon, monsieur," she said.
Daddy nodded. When he turned back to me, he looked as if he had aged twenty years in a minute. We entered the ICU and were directed to Pierre. The I.V. bag dripped its solution through the tube and into his arm. His eyes were closed, and his complexion was waxen, his lips so dull they almost looked white. I saw his chest barely rise and fall under the sheet, which was drawn up to his chin.
Daddy gulped back a moan and reached for Pierre's hand. "Hey, buddy," he said. "We're back. We're with you, Pierre. Pearl is here beside me. Come on, Pierre. Open your eyes and look at us." He rubbed Pierre's hand gently and waited, but Pierre was like a solid wall, unmoving, unresponsive, not even a blink of an eyebrow.
"Why is this happening to us?" Daddy moaned, his head back. "Maybe Ruby is right. Maybe it is some sort of curse. One horrible thing after another, beating us into submission, destroying us for daring to be happy."
"You mustn't think like that, Daddy. You mustn't give up hope. If for no other reason, then for Pierre. He needs us to be strong now."
Daddy nodded, but not with conviction. He stared at Pierre, watching his chest rise and fall, and then he sighed, lowering his head. Finally he lifted his sad eyes, a shadow of gloom making them look even darker.
"I'm going to go get a cup of coffee," he said. "I'll be back in a moment. You want something?"
"No. I'm fine, Daddy. Go on."
He rose and walked out, his shoulders sagging as if the air above him weighed tons. I turned back to Pierre and took his hand in mine.
"Pierre," I began. "We need you desperately. Mommy blames herself for what's happened; she's run off, and she won't come back until you start getting better. Please help us," I pleaded. "Fight this urge to sleep away your life. Return to us, to Mommy. Think of what this will do to her. Please, Pierre," I said, the tears streaming down my cheeks. My heart felt like a lump of lead in my chest. I sat there holding his hand, praying.
If Mommy would only come walking through that door. Why couldn't the spirits that whispered in her ears tell her she needed to return? Unless of course, they were evil spirits.
The scream of another patient in pain across the room snapped me back to reality. I had no idea how long I had been sitting there, praying and dreaming.
"I'm sorry, my dear, but we have to keep our visits short in ICU," the nurse said when she came up beside me. "You and your father can return on the hour if you'd like."
I nodded and gazed at Pierre again, but just as I was about to get up and let go of his hand, I felt his forefinger twitch. It was like a sting of electricity up my arm.
"He moved!" I cried.
"What?" The nurse looked at Pierre whose eyes remained shut.
"His finger. It moved in my hand."
"Just a nerve reaction, perhaps," she said.
"No, no, he's reaching out, reaching back. Please, let me stay."
But. . .
"Please, a little while longer. I have to keep talking to him!"
"I must ask you to lower your voice," she said. "There are other patients, all critical, here."
"I'm sorry."
"The regulations for visiting in ICU are five to ten minutes for immediate family every hour on the hour," she repeated in an authoritative monotone.
"Go get the doctor," I demanded, spinning on her. "I definitely felt my brother's finger move, and it was no nerve reaction."
"Get him!" I insisted. She saw the fire in my eyes
and bit down on her lower lip. Furious herself, she pivoted and marched back to the nurses' station. I sat down again and immediately began to talk to Pierre. "I know you can come back to us, Pierre. I know you don't want to be in this horrible hospital room with these horrible people any longer than you have to. Listen to me. We need you. I want you to wake up so Mommy can come home. I promise you, as soon as I leave here, I'll try to find her if you'll open your eyes. Please do it, Pierre. Jean wants you to help Mommy too. I'm sure he does."