Noble Vision (38 page)

“Even if he were sympathetic, I heard his hands are tied.”

“It seems you heard a lot of things.”

“If your father’s in the public eye because the governor’s going to choose him for a running mate, how can he pull any strings?”

“Pulling strings is what he does for a living,” David said contemptuously. “Won’t you stick around, Nicole, to see what happens at the hearing?”

“The best way to save yourself is to drop this case now.”

“Won’t you give me a chance to do what I really want to do?”

“If that means to destroy yourself, no.”

“I want to finish your treatment not as an act of self-destruction but as my greatest achievement.”

“No!”

“When I performed your surgery, I was doing
my
work,
my
way, without having to give explanations, excuses, and apologies to people who get their kicks out of keeping me in line. I’m fed up with it! I want to fight it with your case, and I want you to let me.”

“No!”

“You said that the Phantom mustn’t confine his dreams to the world he sees on the stage. What about us, Nicole? Are you going to run away from your dream—and mine?”

“But I
helped
the Phantom. I didn’t destroy him.”

“Now help me. Fight with me for what we both want.”

“David, you must give up my case.”

“You worry about the Phantom giving up the driving force of his life, and if he does, you’re afraid there’ll be nothing left of him. Remember your own words?”

“That was different.”

“Why? What would be left of me if I gave up my research and your case? What would be left of you if you let me give up your treatment?”

“Does my surgery mean that much to you?”

“More than you know.” The words hung in the silence that followed, as he thought of all the things he could not say. “Surely you’d agree to the surgery if it were legal.”

“Well, yes.”

“The hearing could reverse the ruling against me. Won’t you come back to learn the outcome and whether we can proceed legally?”

“But David—”

“No buts, Nicole. Come back, for the reasons I gave you.”

She paused. He waited.

Finally, she whispered tentatively, “Okay.”

She heard a sigh that was like a sudden release from a torture rack.

“But I’ll let you operate
only
if it’s legal. Is that clear?”

“Where are you? I’ll pick you up.” His voice was lighter.

“No. I can get home.”

“You’re newly blind and not yet trained to deal with it! It’s
dangerous
to be on your own now! I’m picking you up.”

“I’m afraid not. Try not to worry. ’Bye, David.”

She hung up, leaving him to frown at the dead phone.

He was leaning against the brick balcony of Nicole’s brownstone apartment, where he and Mrs. Trimbell had gone with a private detective, searching for clues to the dancer’s whereabouts. The late afternoon sun was seeping between the leaves of a tree, dappling his body in lights and shadows as he resumed reading a report that he had been given by the detective. It was a background check that the investigator had run on a child named Cathleen Hughes. The investigator discovered that this child had run away at thirteen to become Nicole Hudson. That was how David learned about his patient’s past—the abandonment by her father, the disappearance of her mother, her entry into foster care, the revolving door of faceless families, the countless episodes of running away, and the only statement from the child herself in the whole of the dry document: a persistent plea to be near Madame Maximova’s School of Ballet. He lingered on the pages in silent tribute to the little swallow that had weathered many storms to reach its lofty perch.

David was waiting outside when a car turned onto Nicole’s block, a tree-lined street with a row of brownstones on the West Side near the theater district. The vehicle, which bore an emblem reading “Reliable Car Service,” stopped before him.

“Watch your head getting out,” said David, opening the back door. He placed a protective hand over the head of the turban-clad beauty who smiled softly, almost sadly, on hearing his voice.

After escorting Nicole to the safety of the sidewalk, he approached the driver’s window.

“How much do we owe you?” he asked the well-dressed young man.

“That’s already taken care of.”

“Where did you pick her up?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t give out that information.”

In his line of work David had learned never to make the same mistake twice. If Nicole were to vanish again, he wanted to be prepared. He flashed a hundred-dollar bill at the driver.

“Maybe you can make an exception this time for someone who’s trying to help her.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Ms. Hudson’s a regular customer. We used to drive her to the theater all the time. You’ll have to ask her.”

The young man smiled cordially and pulled away, never looking twice at the bill in David’s hand. The driver had scruples, which David did not appreciate! He walked to Nicole, squeezing her hands tightly against his chest in an expression of his immense relief at seeing her.

“Everyone going into your hospital room knew not to tell you the news. Who told you?”

“I’m not saying.”

“Someone on the hospital staff?”

“I’m not saying.”

“Someone from the theater?”

“David, please stop.”

“Promise—swear to me!—you’ll never pull that stunt again. Promise you’ll talk to me first if you hear something frightening and give me a chance to explain.”

“Promise you’ll tell me the news as it happens, David.”

“Don’t let the news frighten you, Nicole. I’m not down yet. This is only the first round.”

Tears swelled in the still-vibrant blue eyes dominating her face. “I can’t believe this is happening! When I was a kid, a lot of things I didn’t like were thrust upon me, and I was powerless to fight them. A nun named Sister Luke said that when I grew up, I would be in charge and could do as I pleased. I lived for the day when Sister Luke’s words would come to pass.” An inner pain furrowed her sublime face. “What do they want from us, David? Why can’t they leave us alone?”

“If I knew the answer, I would understand my father—and all the others like him.”

He curled her hand around his arm and walked a half step in front of her, past the gate of her brownstone, up the front steps, and to her third-floor apartment. She felt a heightened awareness of his body, as if he were leading her in a dance. When he walked, she walked. When he turned, she turned. He narrated the leisurely trip for her as they progressed:

“The sun is to the left of the garden. It’s casting a long shadow of leaves and flowers over our path. We’re stepping on the rosebush now.” She laughed. He stopped walking. With the reflexes of a dancer, she stopped, too, instantly and gracefully. “We’re at the steps, Nicole.” He climbed up, and she rose effortlessly with him. “The sky is turning a deeper blue. The sun is reflecting off the tall buildings to the right, making their windows sparkle like hot metal. On the left, a few wispy clouds near the horizon are already tinted pink. It’s going to be a pretty sunset.”

She listened with a child’s enchantment to the description that was a painting, and the world she could not see had never looked lovelier.

He escorted her into the neat, attractive apartment on the upper floor of the brownstone, explaining how he and Mrs. Trimbell had moved furniture out of the center of the rooms to prevent her from tripping. She touched things to get her bearings as they walked through the living room, dining area, ballet studio, master bedroom, and guest room.

After the tour, he faced her in the living room. “Mrs. Trimbell went for groceries. When she returns, I’d like to see you eat a big dinner.”

She nodded, knowing she needed food. “Thank you, David . . .”—she put her hands to her heart—“more than I can say. I’m sorry I worried you.” Her eyes had somehow hit the spot where his were, as if she were seeing him.

“I’m sorry you were frightened.”

They stood facing each other for a silent stretch that seemed strangely comfortable to both of them.

“I want you to rest now,” he said finally.

Tiring easily on her first day out of the hospital, she welcomed his guidance to the couch and limply sank into it. With dusk approaching, he turned on the lamp on the end table next to her. The large, translucent globe was on a dimmer switch. It came on faintly at first, then grew in intensity as he continued turning the knob. Nicole moved her head to the light.

He looked at her curiously. She stared intently at the globe from a foot away. He kneeled beside her and soundlessly turned the dimmer switch down until the light faded. Then he turned it up again, slowly. As the light reached full intensity, she cried, “I see light! David, I see light!”

He dimmed the light again.

“It’s gone now,” she said.

He raised the light once more.

“It’s back!” She stared excitedly at the globe, her voice trembling. “You told me I would recover some of my sight before the scar tissue grew to obstruct it again. That’s what’s happening, isn’t it?” The globe cast a golden glow over a childlike face of sheer delight. “The nerves are growing! The experiment’s working!”

He gazed into her eyes with the excitement of Louis Pasteur at a moment of discovery. The thrill on his face swept away the anguish of the day and week. Finally, he found a voice that trembled as hers did.

“Hell, yes, Nicole! The experiment’s working!”

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In the weeks that followed, David tried to keep busy in his lonely office. He read medical journals, wrote notes for research papers, and attended to the animals hidden in his lab, the five cats that would receive the second surgery to repair their optic nerves prior to Nicole’s operation.

He searched for a backup plan for performing Nicole’s second surgery, should CareFree maintain its prohibition, but nothing materialized. He continued his efforts to become licensed in another state or country in time for the operation, but to no avail. The rejections of the licensing officials formed an impenetrable wall:

“We require a clean history of regulatory compliance. A doctor who breaks the law in one state is a poor risk in another.”

“We check for legal cases pending or judgments against a doctor. We don’t license those with a questionable record.”

“Fill out the forms, and we’ll let you know in six months. . . . No, I’m afraid we can’t speed up the process.” Nicole’s second surgery had to be done in three months.

He explained his case to influential medical leaders, hoping to find one individual who would help. The answer he heard repeatedly was along the lines of “Unfortunately, Dr. Lang, there are considerations other than a distinguished clinical record, which you have, that make us unable to help you.”

During those weeks following Nicole’s surgery, David and his lawyer prepared for the hearing to repeal his suspension and to permit Nicole’s treatment. CareFree set a date for the case in mid-September; however, the agency failed to name an administrator to hear it. Meanwhile, Governor Malcolm Burrow was conducting a search to find a suitable running mate, declaring that he would make a decision in the coming weeks: “I will choose a candidate of the highest integrity and character, someone impervious to personal gain, someone who will work for the public interest.”

Sitting in his office, his hands idle, David tried to ignore the sound of turning pages amplified in the silence, the empty examining room beyond the door, and the unoccupied chairs in the waiting room. He tried to avoid looking at the hospital outside his window, where doctors in white coats walked briskly along the grounds, nurses attended patients, and ambulances whizzed by. He was in the midst of plenty, but his horn was empty. He could find no substance to fill the huge crater that had formed in his life. He covered his eyes to block the vision of the man who had ripped the OR from him and left in its place an empty pit.

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A half-mile from David’s office, another lonely figure fought a quiet battle with despair. Life to Nicole felt like a bare stage. Gone was her beloved theater and busy career. Gone were the continuous, refreshing visual delights that sweetened her existence—the joy of reading a book, seeing a garden, watching the sun sparkle on the buildings, perceiving her own appearance in a mirror, preparing a colorful salad. Gone, too, was the visual excitement of movement—of a bird flying, a child running, a tree swaying, a car passing. Gone was her ability to observe other people, to know their appearance, to root them to a specific location, to observe the facial expressions and body gestures that had enriched her communications. Her lively universe of sights, colors, objects, and motions had vanished, leaving a vast emptiness.

Then there were the endless, maddening inconveniences that magnified her helplessness. She could not write a check, read her mail, compose a letter, count money, shop, eat, or dress without assistance. There were the untold frustrations of trying to walk across a room without stumbling, the disorientation of moving about in the unknown. Her cathedral of reality had shattered into a few disembodied fragments within the immediate range of her touch. Her awareness of whole objects existing in a whole world crumbled, and with it, her proud sense of efficacy in that world.