The Carlton Club (15 page)

Of course you do, Leslie thought. Typical Hal. But, still, she’d seen another side of him. And he of her.

She was grateful for what he had done, and he admired her for what she had done.

Five minutes after the press left, Janet stood up.

“I’m going to go.”

“Janet!”

Leslie followed her into the hallway.

“I don’t belong here, Leslie. I’m not helping him, and I’m preventing Kathleen from talking. Call me, please, as soon as you hear anything.”

“I will.”

Janet was right. Kathleen needed to talk. She started talking as soon as Leslie returned, but her words caught Leslie by surprise.

“Listen, Leslie, I know you don’t like me. I know how much you care about Mark. But, believe me, I love him with all my heart. I really do.”

“Kathleen, I—”

“And he loves me, Leslie,” Kathleen continued firmly.

“I know that,” Leslie said honestly. She had learned it that night. At least, she had admitted it to herself that night. She had seen the look in Mark’s eyes at the mention of Kathleen’s name.

Then Kathleen began to cry.

“I wish he would quit medicine.”

“What?” Apparently Mark had told her, and she didn’t care. Good. “You wish he would quit?”

“Yes. He never would, of course. He loves it. He’s committed to it,” Kathleen sighed.

So she didn’t know. Maybe there was nothing to know anymore. Maybe Mark had made peace with his inner conflict. Leslie remembered how happy, how relaxed he had looked tonight
before
the event.

“Why do you wish he would quit?” Leslie asked.

“Selfishness. So he would be safe. From the diseases. From getting shot. What is there about being a doctor that should put you at risk to get shot?” she demanded.

Leslie had no answer. Mark wasn’t the first doctor to get shot. It happened. Angry patients, angry families, patients demanding narcotics, psychotic patients.

“I don’t know, Kathleen,” Leslie said. Then she asked, curious, “You don’t care if Mark is a doctor?”

“No! I don’t care if he is anything or nothing. I just want to be with him,” Kathleen smiled through her wet violet eyes, seeing a past memory or a future happiness. “If he wasn’t a doctor, we would have more time together. Selfish. I’m selfish.”

Their conversation was interrupted by Gwen who announced that they were beginning to close. Mark would be going up to the ICU in about twenty minutes.

Leslie and Kathleen slipped past the press assembled in front of the ICU. Hal was giving them an update, promising them an interview with one of the trauma surgeons as soon as the surgeon was free to leave Mark.

Leslie briefly introduced Kathleen to Ed Moore who was writing Mark’s postop orders at the ICU nursing station.

“He’s OK so far,” Ed said. “But he still can’t bleed. He has absolutely no reserve. We’ve already given him a blast of iron by vein.”

So he can start making, remaking, red blood cells.

“You are a hero, Ed.”

“No, but we all gave it our best. And our luck has held, so far.” Then he reached for her hand. The cuts were still unbandaged. Leslie hadn’t had a chance to go back to the ER. Ed said gently, “You are the hero, Leslie. You saved his life.”

“No,” Leslie said, embarrassed, uncomfortable that Kathleen overheard.

“Yes. Here’s the proof,” he said examining her hand. “In thirty minutes, after we get him squared away here, you meet me in the ER. These wounds need attention.”

“OK. Thanks.”

There was some concern about allowing Kathleen in to see Mark. She was not family.

Leslie intervened quickly.

“Kathleen is his family. He needs her. They just don’t happen to have the piece of paper and the blood test,” Leslie said. Not yet, she thought.

“You’d make a good attorney, Leslie. Persuasive,” the head nurse said. But the nurse allowed it mainly because of Mark. Anything to help Mark.

“Thank you,” Kathleen said quietly as they walked toward Mark’s room in the ICU.

“We kept the anesthesia pretty light. He’s still out, but he should wake up soon,” the anesthesiologist said to Leslie.

Leslie and Kathleen stopped at the door to Mark’s room. The nurses were organizing the machines, lines, monitors, ventilator hoses and settings.

Mark lay still, motionless. So pale. A hematocrit of eleven made his skin white. Blue white.

Leslie held back, knowing to wait for the nurses to get everything in order, to finish their necessary tasks. Leslie also held back because, as many times as she had seen ICU patients with lines and tubes lying motionless, it was always startling and a bit overwhelming.

Now the patient was Mark.

Kathleen did not hold back. She did not hesitate to move quickly toward the horribly pale, horribly still marionette who was Mark.

Kathleen smiled graciously as she worked her way around the busy, surprised nurses, careful not to disturb anything, ducking under tubes, stepping over cords, but aiming unerringly for the head of the bed. She had to get to a place where she could touch him, speak to him.

When she reached him Kathleen placed her head gently against his, temple to temple, and whispered into his ear.

“I love you, Mark. I love you.”

Mark’s eyes fluttered, and his hand, apparently lifeless until that moment, lifted off the bed and reached for her.

Kathleen caught his hand and held it. She whispered again and again.

“I love you, Mark. I love you.”

Leslie watched Mark and Kathleen for a moment, her eyes flooded with tears. Then she left to call Janet and to let Ed Moore take care of her hand. As she left, Leslie knew for the first time in the long emotional evening that Mark would make it. He had a reason to make it.

Kathleen was his reason.

James Stevenson flipped on the television’s power switch. When Lynne was away, James drank his morning cup of coffee and smoked his first cigarette of the day in front of the morning news programs.

“After murdering his intended victim, the assassin hid in a small laboratory where two residents from the University of California’s Department of Medicine were working. One of the residents, Dr. Mark Collinsworth, was shot. The other resident, Dr. Leslie Adams, is pictured here.”

James looked up instantly at the mention of Leslie’s name, just in time to see the dramatic footage, artfully spliced. James moved closer to the television and turned up the volume. His pulse raced, and his mind spun as he watched the horrible, grotesque picture of her blood-covered face fade miraculously into the one of her just after she had emerged from the shower. Fresh, beautiful, sensual.

Leslie
.

So she was here. In San Francisco.

She looked the same. James had seen that startled, bewildered look before—a similar picture, but a different time and a different place. That spring day, years before, her hair was damp, her face fresh from a brisk swim in the lake and her royal blue tank suit clung to her the way the blue scrub dress did.

Leslie’s raw, natural beauty. She didn’t even recognize it, at least not then, in high school, when her lovely face was framed by unruly chestnut curls and her soft voluptuous body was carefully hidden under cardigan sweaters and tailored blouses.

The silky unrestrained curls. The womanly figure. The blazing blue eyes. The full seductive lips.

Leslie.

How long had it been? James knew without thinking about it. Nine years almost to the day. It was that August, two months after graduation from high school, their accidental final meeting by the fountain at Seattle Center. Leslie, with her girlfriends, romping and playing, because that’s what they did in those carefree days. And James, holding Cheryl, kissing her, oblivious to Leslie’s presence until Leslie, literally, ran into them.

“Oh! James!” Leslie had pulled up short, red with embarrassment, breathing quickly.

“Leslie. Hi,” he had said, pulling away a little from Cheryl. But Cheryl didn’t let go. “Uh, this is Cheryl. Cheryl this is Leslie. And Joanne and Betty.”

A brief awkward final meeting. An uncomfortable ending to something that had never really begun.

Or had it?

A week later Leslie mailed a letter to him. It arrived with letters from Cheryl. For some reason James didn’t notice it. Leslie’s letter remained unopened and was stored in a shoebox with all the letters from Cheryl. Ten months later James discovered it. Opened it. Read it. It was too late for him and Leslie, but just in time for him. Just in time to change his life. Forever. For the better.

But Leslie didn’t know. All she knew was that she had sent a letter, a letter that must have been terribly hard for her to send, that was never answered. Never acknowledged.

James hadn’t seen her, talked to her, for nine years.

Now he knew where she was.

Dr. Leslie Adams. Department of Medicine. University of California at San Francisco.

James turned off the television, lit another cigarette and sat, without moving, except to light the next cigarette, and the next, for hours.

“Hey you, Dr. Night Stalker,” Mark called as Leslie walked past his hospital room. His door was open. It was five in the morning.

“Hi!” she whispered, peering into his private room.

Mark sat up in bed. The light was on. He was reading.

He had been transferred from the ICU after a week’s stay. This was his fourth morning on the ward.

“Are you busy or are you just prowling?”

“Prowling. There’s no lovely view from this place, anyway. And it never feels peaceful.”

“No calms between storms?”

“Just when you think you’ve hit a calm spot, you realize it’s only an illusion. It’s really the eye of another hurricane.”

Mark smiled. Then he asked, “Where’s Hal?”

Leslie sat down in the chair next to Mark’s bed without answering.

“Leslie, where’s Hal?”

“Asleep.”

“Leslie, it was bad enough, but acceptable, for you to do this as an intern, but you do not stay up all night while your intern sleeps.”

“I know,” she said sheepishly.
But I do
.

“How is Prince Hal?”

“What have you been reading,
Henry IV?”

“Very good.”

“I was raised on this,” Leslie said, gesturing to the stack of books, classics of English literature, next to Mark’s bed. “At least, surrounded by it.”

“Lucky,” Mark mused. Then he asked again, “How is the crown prince?”

“Actually, he’s better,” Leslie said honestly, but understating the magnitude of improvement. Hal had gone overboard in the admiration department. She appreciated the quiet moments when Hal was asleep because then he wasn’t trailing around behind her, admiring her. “Toning down. Asking questions. He even has a bit of a crush on me.”

“Good, I—”

“Told me so. I know. You were right. How are you?”

“Doing well. Reticing like crazy.”

Reticulocytes—retics—were young red blood cells. Their presence in blood meant new red blood cells were being produced.

“And your crit is ?”

“Twenty-four,” Mark said proudly. “They are going to turn me loose to finish recuperating at home when I hit twenty-seven.”

Home. To Kathleen.

“It still doesn’t give you much leeway,” Leslie said, looking at his pale white skin.

“You mean if I get shot again in the next few days? The re-bleed risk period is over.”

“You are so lucky. You had the most uneventful, uncomplicated recovery in history.”

“The reason I’m lucky is because you were there. Or so they say.”

“I was lucky that you were there. You saved my life, Mark.”

“That’s nonsense. Anyway, I remember nothing between lunging at the guy and waking up in the trauma room. Are you ever going to tell me what really happened?”

Mark had asked her before, but Leslie always resisted giving details. She hated remembering. It was so personal, so private. It was so
intimate
to put her hand inside of him, deep into his chest, and, at the same time, it was so impersonal and anatomic. Like an autopsy.

“I told you. I put pressure on a bleeder.”

“With one little finger?” Mark asked, holding up his hand, gesturing to hers. He knew what she had done. He had seen her hand. He had seen the scars on her palm, thick and uneven. Scars that would always be there.

“And after I stopped the bleeding,” Leslie continued, ignoring him, “you went crazy and refused blood transfusions.”

“I don’t believe that decision was crazy.”

“We’ll never know. It turned out all right.”

“Maybe we will know, someday, that it was the right decision.”

Mark’s telephone rang. It was six
A.M.
Leslie stood up and said, “Kathleen. I’ll go.”

“Stay put, Leslie. It’s not Kathleen. It’s probably a wrong number. Trunk lines crossed or something.”

It wasn’t a wrong number. It was Mark’s father calling at eight
A.M.
from his office in Lincoln.

“Mark!” his father roared.

“Father,” Mark answered flatly.

“Why in hell didn’t you tell us?”

“I didn’t want to worry you,” Mark said, grimacing at Leslie. “It’s just a flesh wound. How did you find out?”

“Warren Mandell was at a urology meeting in San Francisco. He saw it on the news. When I ran into him in the hospital yesterday, he asked how you were and was surprised that your mother and I weren’t in San Francisco.”

“Oh. Well. You saved yourself a trip.”

“Still in the hospital after ten days? That doesn’t sound like a flesh wound. I want you transferred here.”

“I’m going home in a day or two.”

“Can Janet take care of you? Wouldn’t it be better if you were here?”

Leslie couldn’t hear Mark’s father’s words, but she heard Mark’s tone and sensed the general flavor of the conversation, guessed what questions Mark was being asked.

Mark looked at her. He was a little embarrassed. Leslie stood up to leave, but Mark shook his head, covered the receiver with his hand and whispered to her.

“You don’t have to leave, Leslie. Unless you want to. It’s just about to get pretty ugly.”

Then why don’t I leave? Leslie wondered. Because Mark seemed to want her to stay.

“Janet and I are not together anymore.”

Leslie drew in a breath. It had been ten months since Mark and Janet had separated. The divorce had been final for months.

Mark smiled weakly at her.

“Not together?”

“Divorced.”

“When did that happen?”

“Recently.”

“When were you going to let us know?”

If Mark didn’t let them know, no one else would. Certainly not Janet’s parents. The Collinsworths had had no contact with Janet’s parents after the wedding.

“Sometime. It didn’t seem like an emergency.”

“Not an emergency? Don’t you know how happy this will make your mother? Delirious. It has been so hard for her, for both of us, thinking about you being married to that poor, gold-digging hick.”

“Do
not
say that.”

“Why not? It’s the truth and you know it. She was beneath you. No good for you. It was so awkward. I’m just glad you came to your senses and left her.”

“She left me. If it were possible, I would still be married to her. But it isn’t.”

“Well, however it happened, it’s a blessing.”

“It’s a shame, Father.”

“Your mother will be thrilled.”

Mark closed his eyes and tilted his head back. The skin over his knuckles stretched tight as he gripped the phone. A vein stood out on his temple, and his jaw muscles rippled.

Leslie watched, horrified. So much pressure. So much rage. So much inner turmoil.

All he needs is an ulcer, she thought, a bleeding ulcer from the stress. It could kill him.

Leslie touched his shoulder with her hand. Mark looked at her, startled. Then he smiled, wanly, and patted her hand.

“I’m OK,” he mouthed the words.

His father continued, “So, son, will you still finish up on time? On July first?”

“Yes. The residency director says I can be off for a month and still fulfill board requirements on schedule.”

“Good. I think I’ll have the shingle made up today. Maybe you would like to live at home now that Janet is gone?”

“I won’t be returning to Nebraska,” Mark said, staring into Leslie’s eyes, gathering strength from their unquestioning support. “I will be beginning a cardiology fellowship in Boston in July. I’ll be doing that for two or three years.”

“When did you make that decision?” his father hissed.

“Recently.”

“Mark, we don’t need any more cardiologists in Lincoln. The town’s teeming with them.”

“Then, maybe, I’ll just have to practice someplace else.”

“You
wouldn’t.
” It sounded like, You wouldn’t
dare
. “After all our plans.”

“All
your
plans,” Mark said. “I have to make my own plans.”

“Your own plans? Dammit, Mark, these are your plans. They have been for years.”

“Then they’ve changed. A lot of things have changed.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“Believe it.”

“You little bastard. After all I’ve done for you.”

White with rage, eyes clouded, muscles taut and skin damp, Mark slammed down the phone. Hung up on his father.

Leslie sat quietly, awkwardly, waiting for him to remember that she was there. She had taken her hand away from his shoulder. Mark was very far away.

Minutes later he looked over at her and smiled sheepishly.

“I’m getting some insight into the complications you mentioned,” she said, remembering their early morning conversation three months before.

Mark nodded.

“I think you made it pretty clear.”

“Leslie, believe it or not, we’ve had conversations like this for years. He doesn’t hear what I say, even when I say it like that. Until recently, one of these wonderful father-son yelling matches would be followed by a call from me, apologizing. Doing what he wanted me to do.”

“Oh.”

“But not anymore.”

Good
.

“When did you decide to do the cardiology fellowship?”

“Just in the last month. It’s a little late to apply for next July.”

“I know. I’m already starting on mine for the following July.” Then Leslie added quietly, “Also in cardiology.”

Mark smiled.