Wonders Never Cease (17 page)

Somehow that didn't sound quite right. He glanced at his notes again—Biederman's handwriting looked like left-handed chicken scratchings. Oh, well, it didn't matter—he got the basic point across. It was all nonsense anyway.

“Don't forget, Liv: Love yourself—that's the most important thing of all. If everyone concentrated on loving himself, there'd be a lot less bickering in the universe. You must love yourself more than anyone else; you must love yourself first. Others are waiting to love you, Liv; free them to love you by showing them that you love yourself. By loving yourself you prove to them that you are lovable, and thus you open the doors to their love. Don't make them wait, Liv—let them know the doors are open. Pick up the phone—give them a call—tell them, ‘Feel free to love me.'”

He checked the reading on Hayden's BIS monitor. She remained semiconscious, but he knew it was best not to keep her there too long—she was a lot less stable in this in-between state. That was enough for one night anyway. Kemp wasn't really sure how much her mind could retain—no sense pushing her too far.

“Well, I should go and let you get some sleep. It's a busy day in the universe, and I've still got other stops to make. Oh, yes, I'm an adviser to many worlds—didn't I tell you? This wisdom I'm imparting to you spans all times and places—even other planets. Yes, many intelligent beings from distant galaxies know that—”

Kemp heard the door suddenly open behind him. He whirled around and looked.

Emmet was standing in the doorway with an empty trash can in his hand. He looked at Kemp; he looked at the white lab coat he was wearing; he looked at the examination light positioned above the bed; he looked at Liv Hayden lying on the bed with half-open eyes.

Kemp stood frozen, waiting . . .

Emmet backed out without a word and closed the door behind him.

20

H
ow did the child seem to you at the time?”

Armantrout asked.

Matt shrugged. “What do you mean?” seem agitated? Distracted?”

“No, I wouldn't say that.”

“Excited? Euphoric?”

“It was See & Say,” Natalie interrupted. “It's like a book report. Did you ever feel ‘euphoric' doing a book report? You must have liked school a lot more than I did.”

“I'm simply trying to understand the child's emotional state at the time,” Armantrout said. He turned to Matt again. “You're certain that Leah understood the nature of the presentation—that the event she described was supposed to be real and not fictional.”

“She understood,” Matt said. “I reminded her twice.”

“Yet she went ahead with the story anyway—and insisted it was true.”

“That's right.”

“Did you object? Did you reprimand her?”

“No, not exactly.”

“Why not?”

Matt glanced over at Natalie. “Because Leah is a tenderhearted girl. I didn't think it would help.”

“‘Tenderhearted'—what is that exactly?”

“She can be sensitive to criticism and blame. If you embarrass a child like that she can just shut down; that's the last thing I want.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm trying to encourage their imaginations, that's why.”

“It sounds to me like you may be encouraging them too much. Maybe a reprimand is just what Leah needs to bring her back to reality.”

Natalie's teeth began to make a dull, grinding sound.

“Did anyone in the class challenge her story?” Armantrout asked.

“There was one boy,” Matt said. “He told her she was lying—that she made the whole thing up.”

“And how did Leah respond to this criticism?”

Matt paused. “She got angry. She began to withdraw.”

“Can you blame her?” Natalie said. “Someone called her a liar—wouldn't you get angry?”

“Someone caught her in a lie,” Armantrout corrected. “I think that's different. We need to keep in mind here that the story was patently untrue. Leah insisted that it was true, and when her claim was challenged she became angry.”

“There's something else we need to keep in mind here,” Natalie said. “None of us know what Leah actually saw.”

Armantrout made a thin smile. “Well, we know it wasn't an angel.”

“Do we?”

Matt looked at her. “What are you saying, Natalie?”

“I'm just saying that nobody knows. Leah says she saw a woman holding her hand out over a patient's head, and for some reason she thinks the woman was an angel. If you had been there, Mr. Armantrout, what would you have seen?”

“Not an angel—I can tell you that.”

“You would have seen a woman holding her hand out over a patient's head, just like Leah did—only you would have thought it was just a woman.”

“I don't see your point, Ms. Pelton.”

“Leah wasn't lying about what she saw—you just don't agree with her about what it meant, that's all.”

“I'm afraid it's not that simple,” Armantrout said. “If we all saw a mouse but Leah insisted it was an elephant, there would be cause for concern. You're quite right, Ms. Pelton, this is not about lying. This is about Leah's ability to distinguish fantasy from reality—and how she responds when challenged.”

“What does that mean?”

“Mr. Callahan tells us that Leah became angry and withdrawn when a boy challenged her story. Unfortunately, if she's going to keep telling stories about angels, she's going to be challenged quite often. Will she always get angry? How angry? Will her anger response increase over time? Could her anger spill over into violent behavior?”

“Violent behavior? Now wait just a—”

Natalie started to rise from her chair, but Matt reached over and put a hand on her arm. “Hold on a minute,” he said to Armantrout. “Aren't we getting ahead of ourselves here?”

“That's what counselors try to do—get ahead of things. Right now Leah's fantasy is probably nothing more than a harmless delusion triggered by exposure to religious mythology. But what about next year, and the year after that? What will happen when she reaches adolescence and her fantasies become fueled by psychosexual drives?”

“This is nuts,” Natalie said. “You're treating Leah like some kind of deviant. The girl thinks she saw an angel! Joan of Arc did that and they made her a saint!”

“It's interesting you should mention that,” Armantrout said. “A number of contemporary scholars have offered medical explanations for Joan of Arc's visions. Some think they were caused by migraines; others schizophrenia. One historian believes she suffered from bovine tuberculosis caused by drinking unpasteurized milk.”

“I don't believe this,” Natalie muttered.

“Migraine sufferers are sometimes known to experience ‘auras' before the onset of an attack; so are epileptics. Perhaps Leah's visions are akin to that—an indicator of some underlying medical condition.”

Matt cut in. “Mr. Armantrout, I don't see what all this has to do with—”

“I'm simply saying that we shouldn't rule out a physical examination for Leah. What could it hurt? We need to keep in mind that this is Leah's second imaginary angel sighting in only three days—if she does have some physical condition, it might be getting worse. I mentioned an MRI before; I think you should seriously consider it, Ms. Pelton. You work at UCLA, don't you? You could easily arrange it. At least that way we could know whether we're dealing with a physical or a psychological problem here.”

Natalie stood up. “Are we done here?”

“Natalie, wait—”

“Thank you, Mr. Armantrout, Mr. Callahan. I appreciate your concern for my daughter and I'll take your suggestions under advisement. Now if you'll excuse me.” She turned on her heel and hurried toward the door.

Matt was right behind her. He waited until they were in the hallway before he took her by the arm and said, “Natalie, hold on.”

She turned and glared at him. “I thought you said you were on my side.”

“I am.”

“Well, you sure have a funny way of showing it. You could have said a lot more in Leah's defense.”

“Nobody was attacking Leah.”

“Oh no?‘Fantasies fueled by psychosexual drives'—what do you call that, a commendation?”

“We just want what's best for her.”

She pointed back down the hall. “
He
doesn't. He just wants to be a little demigod who gets to poke around in other people's heads.”

“I agree with you,” Matt said. “Armantrout is an idiot—personally I can't stand the guy. But he might have a point, Natalie. The school is going to expect you to do something just to show that you're taking their recommendations seriously. Maybe you should consider that MRI—just as a compromise. I think it might get Armantrout off your back.”

“Have you ever had an MRI, Matt?”

“No, I haven't.”

“The machine is huge—it fills a whole room. They put you on this rolling table and strap you down so you can't move—that's because the narrow little tunnel they put you in is so claustrophobic that some people panic. They lock your head in a kind of vise that holds it perfectly still, then they slide you into that tunnel and make you wait for fifteen minutes while these massive magnets buzz all around you. It doesn't hurt at all—not one bit—but believe me, the minute you see that machine you think something must be wrong with you.”

Natalie's eyes began to fill with tears. “I've made some big mistakes in my life, Matt, and my biggest fear is that my mistakes have already screwed up my daughter. I want her to have a normal childhood. I want her to think that everything's okay—that
she's
okay—and I want her to be able to see angels without somebody wanting to shove her head into an MRI. To tell you the truth, I'm jealous of Leah. I wish
I
could see an angel right about now—God knows I could use one.”

“Natalie—”

“Thanks for caring, Matt. But if you're really on my side, the next time Leah mentions an angel, don't tell anybody. Just call me—okay?”

21

K
emp parked his old Honda Civic in the UCLA Medical Center staff lot; the car sputtered and made one final death kick before it gave up the ghost. He checked his hair in the rearview mirror and took a thermos from the front seat—then he remembered something else.
Can't forget the notes
, he thought, grabbing a leather folder beside him.
I know an angel
who needs them
.

Last night's installment had gone off without a hitch—with the slight exception of Emmet's unexpected intrusion. Kemp recalled the blank look on the old man's face as he took in the scene and then quickly backed out of the room. Did the old man have any idea what was going on? He was just a janitor, after all—just a minimum-wage drudge with no knowledge of medical procedure. It probably just looked like some kind of examination to him.
Nothing to worry about
, he told himself.

Kemp was feeling good tonight. After working out a few bugs in a shaky opening night performance he felt like he was beginning to hit his stride. He had the system down now: Each morning the four partners would meet in the Century Plaza suite to hammer out that evening's episode, and each night the angel would faithfully present it to his captive audience. By now Kemp knew precisely how much to adjust the propofol, and exactly how long it would take to move Hayden into and out of her semiconscious state. Last night he remembered to hang a freshly laundered lab coat in the closet—can't have the angel looking frumpy, after all. Tonight he even thought to bring a spare bulb for the examination light just in case of a burnout.
Attention to detail—that's what separates the professionals
from the amateurs
.

There were other touches he was adding too. Last night he took the time to speak with each of the other nurses just before beginning his hour-long session to avoid appearing absent any longer than necessary—especially Natalie, to prevent any more awkward interruptions like the first night. He wished there was a lock on the door, but that was something no hospital allowed—can't have stubborn patients locking themselves in their rooms. As soon as the session was over Kemp readjusted the propofol and immediately took his half-hour break, strategically making contact again with each of the nurses and using the break time to allow Hayden to slowly sink back into her coma.

By now the system was a thing of beauty—an elegantly choreographed dance, a perfectly synchronized symphony. He had the whole thing down to a science now, and science was something Kemp was very, very good at.

He was getting pretty good at this angel thing too; he was feeling the part. It had all seemed a little awkward that first night, but by the second night the words came more quickly. He had more confidence; he improvised freely, throwing in a personal comment or insight whenever it seemed like an improvement on the notes. Kemp imagined that this must be what Liv Hayden felt like when she was in the middle of shooting a picture—when she began to inhabit a role to the point that she was no longer pretending to be a character—she
was
the character.
I could get used to this role
, Kemp thought.
It
fits me
.

Kemp took the elevator to the sixth floor and headed immediately to Hayden's hospital room, but when he opened the door he saw something he didn't expect—he found Dr. Smithson examining his unconscious patient. Kemp took a quick look at his watch—
awfully late for rounds
, he thought. The neurologists usually left hours ago.

Smithson looked up as he entered the room.

Kemp nodded a cursory greeting. “You're working late.”

“I like to be thorough,” Smithson said. “So how is our patient doing?”

“You're the doctor.”