The Carlton Club (48 page)

Ross called her during that time, only a week after her desperate phone call to him in October.

“How are you, Katie?” His voice conveyed his concern for his friend.

“I’m fine,” Kathleen said buoyantly. “I’m sorry about last week. I was such a goose.”

“A goose? That’s cute British phraseology. Massachusetts is no longer a colony, you know,” he teased, already relieved by the lilt in her voice.

“I’m just a little giddy. That’s all.”

“Things are better with Mark?”

“Wonderful. Starting about five minutes after I spoke with you.” As soon as Mark returned from his visit with Leslie, Kathleen thought, pushing the thought away as soon as it surfaced.
Leslie
. “A little touch of hysteria, I guess.”

Ross had never known Kathleen to be hysterical. Her despair had been genuine and deep-seated. He was glad that the storm had passed but decided to tell Kathleen what Janet had said anyway.

“Mark doesn’t like medicine?” Kathleen’s voice registered amazement and disbelief. How could Janet think that? “No Ross, I am sure that Janet is wrong. Mark loves medicine. It’s his life.”

“If he was torn, ambivalent, it would explain his moodiness, wouldn’t it?” Ross pushed. Janet had convinced him.

“It could. Except that he’s not moody anymore. And he loves medicine!” Kathleen exclaimed. But even as she spoke, a trace of doubt flickered across her mind. What was it? A distant memory, the look of peace in Mark’s eyes when she had told him about her wealth and had teased him about never having to pick up another stethoscope.

“Well. I just thought I would pass it along. Janet thinks that Leslie believes it, too.”

Leslie, Kathleen thought. Leslie knows something. Leslie made Mark feel better.

By the end of four weeks, Mark had lapsed back into moodiness. He retreated to his study every evening, closed the door and came to bed long after Kathleen had fallen asleep. Long after Kathleen had cried herself to sleep.

There were brief respites in the moods. Mark would unexpectedly emerge from his preoccupation and discover her again, almost surprised by her presence and her loveliness. His passion would leave her breathless and confused. She wanted to tell him, but in the moments when they could talk, when they held each other and loved each other, the words she planned to say sounded foolish. Because, then, there was nothing wrong.

When the bad periods came, as they did more and more often as the weeks passed, she couldn’t talk to him because then he didn’t hear her.

I have to do something, she thought again as she watched the snowflakes glitter and die. That cold snowy January night Kathleen made a decision.

It was wrong. It was an invasion of his privacy, but she had to know. Maybe it would give her the answer. Quickly, before she lost her courage, Kathleen went to Mark’s study.

She looked at the desk in dismay. Mark had straightened it before leaving for the hospital. The top of the carved oak desk was bare. The mysterious papers had vanished. Mark had carefully put them away—hidden them—before he left, so that she wouldn’t see them.

I have to do this, she told herself, fighting her own guilt. She closed her eyes and tried to visualize what had been on the desk.

A book. Large. Blue. Kathleen searched the bookshelves. It was on the lower shelf. A textbook of cardiology. Kathleen’s fingers trembled as she flipped through the pages of scientific text interspersed with electrocardiographic tracings.

It has to be here, she thought. Whatever it is that Mark is hiding from me.

The twenty sheets of lined paper filled with Mark’s meticulous, distinctly non-medical handwriting fell to the floor from the middle of the textbook. The top sheet was a list. The heading at the top of the page was To Do. Kathleen scanned the list briefly. The items seemed routine. Some were crossed out.

Kathleen drew a breath when she saw the last item on the list. Not routine. Not an item. A name.

Leslie.

Kathleen quickly turned to the other pages. It was a story.

Kathleen fell weakly into the overstuffed chair in Mark’s study and began to read.

Leslie didn’t drive straight home. Her apartment wasn’t home anyway. Not without Eric. It was only a place to sleep, and she was exhausted but not sleepy. Instead, she drove west toward the ocean, finding her way through the blur of the blinding rain and her own tears. It was a route she knew by heart, the same route she took from Eric’s penthouse to the Veterans’ Hospital in Lincoln Park. She drove from Broadway to Divisadero to California to Park Presidio to Geary Boulevard and to Point Lobos Avenue. Her winding path brought her finally to the Great Highway and the beach.

Leslie parked her car and walked through the heavy, wet sand to the water’s edge. The storm-tossed waves crashed violently at her feet splashing her face with wet salty drops. Huge cold rain drops, propelled by the brisk icy wind, pelted against her. Amidst the chilling dampness of the ocean and the rain. Leslie felt a surprising warmth on her numb cheeks. Tears, she realized. Her own hot tears.

At another time, in a different climate, she would have trudged into the ocean. She would have swum until the turmoil inside her had been purged, thrashed out of her heart and her mind as she thrashed through the pounding waves.

But this was no night for a swim. It was too dangerous, too cold, too sinister. And this problem would not be solved by one swim or a thousand. It could not be so easily purged. It would thrash back at her heart and her mind.

Why didn’t he tell me? her mind thundered loudly as if competing with the roar of the waves and the hiss of the wind. Why didn’t he make me part of his life? Why did he hide it from me? Why? Why? Why?

The answers didn’t come. Just the questions, as cold and relentless and punishing as the winter storm. Finally the numbness of her cheeks and the trembling of her body forced her back to her car. The route to her apartment was familiar: Lincoln to Seventh to Parnassus. But tonight the rain-slick streets were hostile, treacherous. Leslie drove carefully and slowly. There was no hurry. No one was waiting for her.

Two minutes after Leslie entered her pitch black apartment, the phone rang.

Eric, she thought as she subconsciously counted the rings. If I don’t answer it, he will just call back.

Ten rings.

If I never answer he will come over.

Fifteen.

He will worry if I don’t answer.

Twenty.

I don’t want him to worry.

“Hello?”

“Leslie? It’s Kathleen.”

“Kathleen.” Leslie shifted quickly into a different frame of reference, a different anxiety. Kathleen sounded frightened. It was midnight in Boston.
Mark
. “Kathleen, what’s wrong? Has something happened to Mark?”

“No. He’s all right,” Kathleen began. Not really, she thought. I don’t know.

It had taken Kathleen an hour to decide to call Leslie. After she read and reread Mark’s story. After she studied the To Do list with Leslie’s name on it. In the end it wasn’t a decision. She had no choice. She needed Leslie’s help. She was desperate.

“Oh. Good,” Leslie said, relieved only a little. Something was wrong. Something to do with Mark.

Slowly, disjointedly, Kathleen told Leslie about the story and the list. It was clear that if Kathleen knew their meaning she wasn’t going to say it out loud. One of the possibilities was unspeakable.

From what Kathleen told her, Leslie concluded that Mark had decided to quit medicine. But what else had he decided to quit? All of it? His life? From what Kathleen told her, Leslie couldn’t tell. And Kathleen couldn’t tell.

Maybe Mark didn’t even know.

“Kathleen,” Leslie interrupted a long silence. “Let me call you back in five or ten minutes, OK?”

“OK. Mark won’t be home for at least half an hour.”

Leslie made three phone calls—one to another R-
3
, one to the chief resident, and the third to an airline—and called Kathleen back.

“I’m going to fly to Boston early tomorrow morning,” she told her.

“Thank you,” Kathleen whispered gratefully. She hadn’t expected it, but she wouldn’t protest. She needed help.

They didn’t say the words, but the emotion and tension in their voices articulated fear. Leslie wondered what Kathleen feared. Was it simply fear of losing Mark? Or was it the bone-chilling fear that Leslie felt? The fear that Mark was planning something more than quitting medicine.

She feared that he was carefully, meticulously planning to kill himself. The
best
planned suicide ever. Planned to look like an accident.

“What shall I tell Mark?” Kathleen asked helplessly. She couldn’t think of a plausible reason to explain Leslie’s sudden visit.

Leslie thought for a moment. Then she sighed.

“Tell him that I need to get out of San Francisco for a few days because I just broke up with Eric,” Leslie said slowly, with great effort. Her words made her ache deep inside, but her words were, simply, the truth.

“Thank you for coming to meet me,” Leslie said to a gaunt, strained Kathleen. Her healthy vivaciousness was gone. She looked sallow and weary. It wasn’t a change that had taken place overnight.

It represented weeks and weeks of constant worry and sleeplessness.

Mark must have noticed, Leslie thought. If he hadn’t, it was a grim barometer of his own internal turmoil.

“Thank you for coming, Leslie. I’m sorry about Eric.”

“So am I,” Leslie said with finality. She didn’t want to talk about it. She needed time, private, uncluttered time, to think about it. Since Kathleen’s call last night, her thoughts and her restless, tormented dreams had darted at random between Eric and Mark.

She had to focus on one at a time, and she had come to Boston because of Mark.

“We have a cab waiting. We had a lot of snow last night. I’m not comfortable driving in it,” Kathleen explained apologetically.

She is really defeated, Leslie thought. The Kathleen that Leslie had known was the Kathleen who had confidently found her way through the maze of tubes and lines and cords and amazed ICU nurses to be with Mark. The only Kathleen Leslie had ever seen was unafraid. She would have been unafraid of driving in the snow.

“I could have taken the subway,” Leslie said. “I know Boston. I went to college here.”

“To Radcliffe?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t know that. Well. I wanted to meet you.”

Kathleen had almost brought the list and the short story with her. She wanted Leslie to read them as soon as possible. She wanted to be reassured that nothing was wrong.

As she watched Leslie’s face as she studied the list and read the short story an hour later, Kathleen knew that Leslie couldn’t reassure her.

First Leslie looked at the list labeled To Do. It was, generically, like the scut list that she and Mark and every other resident made every day. At work the list included lab results to check, social workers to contact, consults to call, X rays to order and articles to read. One by one each item on the scut list was crossed off. When every item had been crossed off, it was time to go home. One didn’t let scut spill over to the next day because each day had its own long list. It couldn’t be allowed to accumulate.

Leslie studied Mark’s list. It was a personal scut list.

Journal subscriptions
(crossed out). Had he cancelled them or renewed them? Cancelled, Leslie decided as she read the other items on the list.
Grant application
(crossed out).
Textbooks—to
medical school library? Instruments. Summary of Patients
(crossed out). He wants his patients to be well taken care of, Leslie thought sadly. Only the best.

At the bottom of the list, Leslie saw her name. Underlined but not crossed out. He was going to talk to her, or write to her or leave something for her.

What does Mark get to do when all the items on his scut list are crossed out? Leslie wondered grimly. Does he get to go home?

Then Leslie read the story.

It’s so beautifully written, Leslie thought as she began to read. He is so talented.

After a few pages, Leslie could no longer be objective about the writing style. She focused only on the words carved from the soul of a man about whom she cared very much.

It was written in the third person, but it was Mark’s story. It was a story about a man driven by himself and others to be something he didn’t want to be. A man driven to be the best. A man who was not allowed to fail. A man who was deeply in love with a woman.

It was a story of triumph. Toward the end, the man makes the courageous tormented decision to quit the life he hates and to find, make, something better. He has the support and love of the woman. Together they can find happiness. No matter what.

But the story didn’t end there. There was a brief epilogue. The man and the woman went for a boat ride.

He held her hand. It made him strong. They stood by the railing, gazing at each other, lost in their love and oblivious to the roughness of the sea. The boat lurched suddenly. The jolt tore them apart and hurled him over the side into the dark emptiness.

Where all is forgiven.

Leslie said nothing for several moments after she finished the story. She couldn’t be sure. He had made the decision to quit medicine. He was systematically canceling journals and compulsively leaving no loose ends. He even finished a grant application for research he would never do. It all seemed logical and rational. Typical, compulsive Mark.

The story was a thoughtful, insightful look at himself. It was almost a celebration of the difficult decision that he made.

Almost
.

“I don’t understand the ending,” Leslie said.

Kathleen had told her about the story last night and its ambiguous ending, but Kathleen hadn’t been able to interpret it. Now, even after reading it herself, neither could Leslie. “The rest of the story is clearly about Mark.”

“That’s about Mark, too,” Kathleen said. “He likes to go on the harbor cruises. He had mentioned how easy it would be to be tossed over the railing.”

“So you swim to shore,” Leslie said simply. “Or wait until someone tosses a lifebuoy.”

“Leslie, Mark doesn’t know how to swim,” Kathleen whispered, her voice laced with fear. “Not even how to tread water.”

“Oh,” Leslie said quietly. She realized then that Kathleen did know. She just couldn’t, wouldn’t, say it.

The best-planned suicide.

But it was a story, not a plan. Fact-based but fictional. A fantasy. One of many possible outcomes.

Mark’s intention to quit medicine was real. The list proved it. The rest was
fiction
, wasn’t it?

“He loves you very much,” Leslie said suddenly.

“Do you think that’s me?” Kathleen asked weakly. It had been the only part that had given her hope.

“Of course it’s you. He describes you—your energy, your vitality, your loveliness—perfectly,” Leslie said. She saw the hope and the doubt in the eyes that used to sparkle. Suddenly Leslie realized that she had something to do with the doubt. Leslie smiled and said gently, compassionately, truthfully, “It’s you, Kathleen. It’s not Janet.
And
it’s not me.”

“Your name is on the list.”

“He loves
you.” He held her hand. It made him strong
. Leslie remembered the words from Mark’s story. And she remembered Mark’s remarkable recovery from the gunshot wound. Against all odds. With Kathleen by his side.

Kathleen was what he lived for.

“Yes, she’s here, Mark. She’s OK,” Kathleen said when Mark called at five-thirty that evening. “I’ll be leaving in ten minutes to go to dinner and a movie with Sally. I’ll be back at about eleven. There’s food here if you don’t go out.”

It was what Kathleen and Leslie had decided. Leslie would talk to Mark alone. She would try to find out what he was planning without telling him that they had read his story. But if it was necessary to tell him that they had invaded his privacy, she would.

Kathleen and Leslie were both willing to accept the consequences of his anger at their betrayal.

He looks fine, Leslie thought when he walked in the front door twenty minutes after Kathleen left. Handsome, focused, smiling.

But Mark looked different, too. The change was subtle. What was it?

He looks calm, Leslie decided. At peace. At peace with his plan. Whatever it is.

“Leslie, I’m so sorry,” Mark said walking toward her.

Sorry? Leslie wondered. Then she remembered. Mark thought she had come because of Eric.
Eric
. All day she had shoved him away from her thoughts, but she had felt a terrible emptiness in her heart. Because of him. A constant, subliminal, mournful presence.

Now as Mark approached her, full of compassion and concern for her, Leslie began to cry.

Mark wrapped his arms around her as he had done the night Jean Watson died. For a moment, Leslie succumbed to the comforting warmth and strength of him. She pressed her face against his chest as he gently stroked her hair. She felt so safe, so secure. But it was an illusion.

After a few moments, Leslie pulled away.

“Tell me what happened,” Mark said gently.

“I didn’t really come here because of Eric,” Leslie said softly. “I came here because of you.”

“Me?”

“Kathleen called me last night. She’s very worried about you. She thinks you are planning something.”

Leslie watched his reaction carefully. He looked surprised and a little embarrassed that they were so worried about him. But he was not angry or defensive. Not as if he had anything to hide.

“I am planning something,” he said calmly. “I am planning to quit medicine.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow, actually. I have an appointment with the cardiology fellowship director at ten. I was planning to call you tonight to tell you.”

“What about Kathleen? When were you going to tell her?”

Mark looked confused for a moment, as if he
had
already told her. He had told her in the story, but not in real life.

“Tomorrow night. After it was over. I had no idea she was so worried,” he said quietly, frowning, concerned.

“When was the last time you really looked at her, Mark?” Leslie asked forcefully, remembering how Kathleen had looked as she left for the movie. Remembering how Janet had looked in the months before her marriage to Mark ended.

Mark’s frown deepened.

“I know that these past few months have been hard for her. They’ve been hard for both of us. I’m not as oblivious as you think. I needed time and privacy. I had to work it out myself. Maybe that was too selfish. I thought I was protecting her.”

“You were excluding her,” Leslie said gently, relieved that at least he knew.

“Not from my plans,” Mark said quickly. “Not from my life.”

“What are your plans, Mark?” Leslie asked. It was the key question. So far his explanation had seemed honest and logical. He wasn’t hiding anything.

“English grad school,” he answered. He seemed a little surprised that she asked. That was what he—they—had always talked about. “What’s going on, Leslie? I thought you would be happy about this.”

“I am happy, Mark. I know it’s right. It’s just—”

“Just what?”

“Kathleen was so worried. Imagine what it took for her to call me,” Leslie said gently.

“And she obviously transmitted the worry to you. That’s why you came,” he said sheepishly. “That was really nice of you, Leslie. I’m a little embarrassed. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Isn’t there? Leslie wondered. What about the ending of the story, Mark? In your story the prince and the princess don’t live happily ever after.

Leslie retreated to the guest bedroom long before Kathleen was due to return. She was emotionally and physically exhausted, too tired to think. Even about Eric. But the ache was with her, and the ache didn’t fall asleep even though she did. The ache surfaced in her dreams. She dreamed horrible vivid dreams about Eric and Mark and Bobby and Michael. She dreamed about little boys who fell over boat railings into black cold water. She tried in vain to save them. Eric and Mark tried to save the little boys, too, but they couldn’t. Instead, they were consumed by the terrible depthless sea.

In all the dreams, as desperately as she tried, Leslie couldn’t save any of them.

Mark stood by the window waiting for Kathleen. When he saw her he went outside into the snowy, cold January night without coat or gloves. He put his arm around her and guided her through the slippery packed snow into the house.

He held her for a moment before speaking. Then he gazed at her, at her dark circles, frightened eyes and pale skin. Leslie was right. He
hadn’t
looked at her for a while. Not really. He had been so preoccupied with his decision,
his
plan. It was for both of them, but he had
shut her out
.

“Oh, Kathleen,” he whispered, pulling her close to him. “I am so sorry. I didn’t want you to worry. There is nothing to worry about, sweetheart. I had to make a very tough decision, a decision about which I had to be absolutely certain. That’s all.”

“Why couldn’t I help you with it?”

“Maybe I should have asked you to,” Mark murmured uneasily.
For better, for worse
. The words, the promises, echoed in his brain. He should have shared it with her. He continued, a little shaken, “I believed that you would support my decision.”

“Of course I would support it. Will support it. What have you decided?”

“I’m going to quit medicine, Kathleen,” Mark said slowly, carefully, watching her reaction.

“Good,” she said instantly.

“Good? You’re not surprised, are you? I guess Leslie probably told you.”

Leslie. And Janet through Ross. And your private papers.

Kathleen shrugged.

“It’s good because it’s what you want, and because you’ll be safe and happy,” she said as she touched his cheek gently.
I love you so much, Mark. Please don’t leave me. Please be safe and happy
.