Noble Vision (31 page)

Cathleen was returned many times to the child welfare agency. Her folder was one of the thickest. It stated that she was withdrawn, antisocial, maladjusted. At some point she became legally eligible for adoption. Being an unusually beautiful child, with finely etched features, giant blue eyes, and luxurious, flowing blond hair, she piqued the interest of many families. However, once they became acquainted with her oddly distant manner, there were no takers at the auction.

When Cathleen was thirteen, something unprecedented occurred. The Flemings, an affluent Westchester family, offered her foster care specifically because of her interest in dancing. The Flemings thought that Cathleen would provide companionship for their own daughter, Rita, who also studied ballet. Besides, helping a needy child was “the Christian thing to do,” said the stately teacher, Mr. Fleming, who was being considered by a prestigious private school for the post of headmaster. Cathleen did not mind Mr. Fleming’s flaunting her at social gatherings and his associates’ whispering about “that girl from the slums whom Fleming has so generously taken in,” because she and Rita were allowed to attend dance classes in New York’s finest studios.

Rita was shocked by the disciplined dance practice, the grueling hours, and the austere dedication of Cathleen. When Rita’s feet hurt, she stopped practicing. When she received a phone call, she left the
barre
. When there were boys to meet, Rita skipped practice. She was revolted by Cathleen’s battlefield-blistered feet. “Lighten up, girl. Dancing’s not supposed to be a holy crusade,” Rita said to Cathleen one day. “So what if you get a step wrong? Why do you have to repeat it fifty times? You’ll be burned out before you’re fifteen.”

Both girls auditioned for the leading role, a dancer’s part, in their school’s annual theatrical production. Cathleen, the superior dancer and actress, was chosen, and Rita became her understudy. Cathleen was thrilled. This would be her first stage appearance! She loved the part and plunged herself into rehearsals. A quiet excitement punctuated her formerly distant manner. She laughed at the dinner table, volunteered to help Rita’s younger brother with his homework, and at bedtime even kissed the surprised Mrs. Fleming.

The girls said nothing to each other of the role, Cathleen out of sensitivity for Rita’s disappointment, Rita out of an unbearable resentment. In Cathleen’s absence, however, Miss Fleming threw a tantrum. If her parents had not taken in that stray creature, Cathleen, their
real
daughter would have gotten the part! In the week following the auditions, Rita could not eat, sleep, attend class, or speak to her parents. Her life was in shambles. Mr. Fleming called Cathleen into his study.

“We’ve provided you with an excellent opportunity, Cathleen, probably the best you’ll ever have, to live in a real home with a real family. We’ve shared our blessings with you because you were needy.” Mr. Fleming paused, expecting a display of appreciation.

Cathleen waited silently, facing him across his desk.

“I think you know how much Rita would like to have the leading role in her school play. Because she’s part of your family now, I thought you might want to do her a good turn by . . . stepping down.”

“But I don’t want to step down, Mr. Fleming. I was chosen for the part.”

The dignified face flushed. “Look, Cathleen, without our generosity, you would never have gotten into our school or known about our theater production. We’ve given you so much. I’m suggesting one good deed from you to help someone who’s treated you like a sister. It would build your character.”

“But Mr. Fleming, how would it build my character to give Rita a part that she wasn’t chosen for?” Cathleen asked simply.

Mr. Fleming picked up a pencil and tapped it irritably. “We’ve grown so fond of you, Cathleen. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to be difficult.” He looked at the unmoved face before him and broke the pencil in half. “I mean, you wouldn’t want us to have to . . .”

“I’ll save you the trouble of returning me to the agency like a broken toaster, Mr. Fleming.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll see.”

That night Cathleen ran away from the Flemings. She took one thousand dollars from a stash that Mrs. Fleming kept in a saucepan under the sink. That was how thirteen-year-old Cathleen Hughes purchased the one-way bus ticket to San Francisco and the phony driver’s license of Nicole Hudson, the character she would play for the rest of her life. A year later in San Francisco, the newly created Nicole Hudson had a job, an apartment, a car, a checking account. In a package with no return address, mailed from New York by a coworker vacationing there, Nicole returned the stolen money to the Flemings, with interest.

The thirteen-year-old’s entry into adulthood was a headfirst dive. Having run away numerous times, she knew there were nationwide hotlines established to locate her. Computer screens across the country would display her picture. She was a thief, besides. If caught, she could be sent to a juvenile detention center or caged for five more years in foster care, until she turned eighteen. If she were stopped at this critical time when she needed rigorous training, her dream of becoming a professional dancer would be ruined. The child had to do what fugitives do: She had to lay low.

She obtained a job in a place that asked no questions—a gentlemen’s club on the outskirts of town. Its management treated the state inspectors well enough so that they, too, found little to question. The adolescent’s pay was excellent and the evening hours perfect for intensive dance training during the day. Although her ballerina’s form did not fit the typical mold for the club, she managed to be more alluring than the other women with her own special assets—the sinewy dancer’s legs, the cascading blond hair, and the remarkable sensuality of a superbly toned body that was grace itself. In the noisy, smoke-filled club, the serious ballerina became a stripper.

She would have done much more to keep her freedom, but fortunately for Nicole, no one else knew that. Her striking beauty and dazzling dance numbers were sufficient to draw hordes of customers to her stage, dropping money at her feet. She broke all of the club’s rules: She did not smile, mingle with the crowd, or dance private numbers. However, her aloofness only intensified her customers’ excitement. Even then her dancing held the rare and stunning harmony of the sensuous and the spiritual that would become her trademark. Because she acquired the largest following of all the girls, the management permitted her to do as she pleased. Hence, she was gaped at extensively but remained untouched. The sublime innocence of the princess, displayed by Nicole in her first leading role at age sixteen and in all of her roles thereafter, was real.

Nicole was not ashamed of her work, because during those years in San Francisco, when she was in charge, her dance training at last was unimpeded.

Now, as she lay in her hospital bed, the helpless prey of despair, she thought again of the last time that she had felt so utterly powerless, when at age eight, she was taken from her sanctuary at St. Jude’s. She heard the distant echo of Sister Luke’s stern but caring voice:
When you grow up, you’ll be in charge, little one. You’ll be a great ballerina, and you’ll do as you please.
She had come so far. She had blasted out of the railway yard that fenced her. But just as her long-awaited train had reached its starry destination, it had veered into a tunnel! She buried her face in her hands and cried.

Chapter 18

The Phantom Returns

“Hey, what’s the matter?”

The question floated to Nicole from somewhere in her hospital room. Over the desperate sound of her sobs, she recognized the voice of the man who could restore light to her life. She tried to compose herself.

“What is it, Nicole?” David covered her limp hand with two sympathetic ones.

“Something too trivial to involve you.”

“Try me.”

“It’s nothing, really. I’m afraid I’m . . .” the pain still caught in her throat, “wearing . . . my breakfast.”

He glanced at the food stain on her blouse. “Do you have anything else to wear besides your breakfast?”

“There’s a sweatshirt in the closet.”

He brought the item to her. She slipped it over her head while he protected the stitches from catching. Without hair, her features stood out in stark relief, like a stage without a backdrop, stripped of all but its essential elements. Her eyes had grown larger above the gaunt cheekbones, her nose more finely sculpted, her lips fuller. The startling beauty of her face held him.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“Feel better now?”

“Yes.”

“After a few lessons with your teacher, Mrs. Trimbell, you’ll be eating sushi and escargot.”

She managed a weak smile.

“Meanwhile, I brought you this.” He placed a large plastic cup in her hand.

She sipped what had become her principal nourishment since entering the hospital.

“Hmmm. Chocolate this morning. Thank you!” Nicole, who had never been ill, assumed that all neurosurgeons brought their patients milkshakes.

David examined the incision and asked how she was feeling. “You’re doing fine. You can go home today.”

Her face showed the first sign of eagerness since the surgery, a mere hint of her former radiance, yet the sight made him forget his sleepless night in the lab.

“I’ll ask Mrs. Trimbell to pick you up.” She heard the click of his opening cell phone and the sound of dialing.

Mrs. Adeline Trimbell was a retired scrub nurse whom David had introduced to Nicole. Before becoming a nurse Mrs. Trimbell had been a teacher of the blind. The stout, elderly widow was amenable to moving in with Nicole temporarily to assist her between the surgeries. When Mrs. Trimbell quoted her fee, the dancer was shocked at the modest amount.

“I’ll have to pay you double that. There are lots of things I’ll need you to do for me, and I don’t want to feel as if I’m imposing.”

“Don’t worry, you won’t be imposing,” said Mrs. Trimbell, “because you’ll be doing most of those things for yourself.” The crusty voice bore no hint of pity.

“I think she’ll do,” Nicole had told David.

Hence, Mrs. Trimbell had moved into the guest room of Nicole’s Manhattan condominium to become her teacher and companion.

“I have Mrs. Trimbell on the phone, Nicole. She’s coming to take you home.”

“Were my personal belongings brought home from my dressing room at the theater?” The show’s producer had gently requested that Nicole remove her things.

“Mrs. Trimbell can hear you. She says your things were brought home.”

“What about all of the old flower arrangements? Were they brought to my apartment undisturbed, as I specified?”

David stared at her intently while Mrs. Trimbell answered the question on the phone.

“Yes, Nicole,” his voice softened, “the flowers were brought to your home.”

“The wicker basket with the African lilies and the painted vase with the birds-of-paradise and the wooden box with the hyacinths—did they make it okay?”

“Yes,” said David, repeating Mrs. Trimbell’s answer. The tenderness in his voice was a caress. He had no idea that she had saved the withered flowers.

“And the lilies. I got them just before the accident. Are they still alive?”

Nicole heard murmurs from the phone.

“Mrs. Trimbell says the lilies are holding their own.”

“Good!”

David drank in the sight of Nicole savoring his gifts. When she completed the inventory of her flower remnants, he ended the phone call.

“Doctor, there’s one thing we must discuss. I want to know what’s happened with the surgery. I mean, it was illegal. You’re not in any trouble, are you?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he lied. His lawyer was burning the phone lines that morning, protesting his suspension. “I’m waiting for a phone call about the matter. I’ll let you know as soon as I learn more and can tell you where we stand.”

“You’re sure you’re going to tell me? Remember, you promised.”

“We’ll talk today. And don’t worry. Okay?”

“Okay.”

If she could have seen him, clad in jeans and a polo shirt on a Monday morning, with no patients to see, having just spent a sleepless night breaking more rules, she would have known that her suspicions were justified.

His squeeze of her hand was like a staccato note. That meant good-bye. During the week of her confinement, she had come to know this faceless man by the touch of his hand on hers. A long squeeze meant that he wanted to give her important instructions, and she was to pay attention. Two hands covering hers meant that he knew she was in pain and that he felt it also. A short squeeze meant that he was leaving and would return later. As he turned to go, she called to him.

“Doctor, there’s one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Did anything come for me? A gift of some kind?”

“You know about the stuff on the windowsill, don’t you? The fruit and candy?”

“Not the things from the theater people. I mean . . . well, I guess I shouldn’t hope for it after what happened, but were there any . . . flowers?”

He suddenly realized whose gift she was seeking. “Why . . . yes, of course! A gift was addressed to you in care of me, so it came to my office by mistake. Flowers, I believe.”