Wonders Never Cease (7 page)

“We?”

“Me and Natalie.”

“Oh, right—your ‘girlfriend.'” He enunciated the word slowly and crisply.

“We're still renting in Culver City—twenty-two hundred a month. There's no rent control in L.A. so it's just going to get worse, and we're not building any equity. We can't get a down payment together on our salaries.”

“I don't see why not. All it takes is discipline and planning. Your mother and I—”

“I know,” Kemp said. “You skimped and saved and pulled yourselves up by your own bootstraps until you had a vacation home at Lake Arrowhead.”

“You mock me and then you ask me for money?”

“I'm not mocking you, Dad—I've just heard it all before, okay?”

“I'm not sure you've heard it at all.”

“Please—not this again.”

“What do you expect me to say? It's the same thing you've always done—you look for shortcuts. You say, ‘We can't get a down payment together.' Sure you can. Other people do it—why can't you? What you mean is, ‘I don't want to wait for that place in Santa Monica—I want it now.' So here you are, looking for a shortcut.”

“I had a little setback, remember?”

“You call that a ‘little setback'? Getting kicked out of the medical profession in your final year of residency? Ruining your career before it even started?”

“It was my career to ruin,” Kemp said.

“I know—I made sure of that. I made you pay your own way through college and medical school, because if you didn't work for it you wouldn't appreciate it. But you still looked for shortcuts all along the way—on your grades, with your money. You got into the habit of taking shortcuts and it caught up with you.”

“Look—I need money, not a lecture on responsibility.”

“Apparently you do, because here you are again.”

“Just forget it. I'm sorry I brought it up.”

“I told you residency would be tough. I told you the hours would be long and you'd have to pace yourself. But no, that took too much discipline. You had to take another shortcut—but that was one shortcut too many, wasn't it, Bobby?”

Kemp lowered his voice to a growl. “The name is
Kemp
.”

“Sorry, I keep forgetting. Most sons keep the name they were born with.”

“Well, I needed a change.”

“Changing your name won't change the man you are on the inside.”

“Thanks for another useless platitude.”

“Does Natalie know?”

“Know what?”

“That you had to move back to California and change your name just to get a job in the medical profession? That the reason you never became an anesthesiologist is because you got caught abusing fentanyl?”

“Hey—would you mind keeping your voice down? That's a little personal.”

“It's personal for me too. I thought my son was following in my footsteps, then one day I turn around and nobody's there. I thought I'd be turning my practice over to you someday; instead I'm trying to explain to my friends why you suddenly got the urge to go into nursing instead.”

“I'm really sorry for your loss, Dad.”

“I can't even keep your name straight.
Kemp McAvoy
—where did you come up with that one?”

“What difference does it make? Nobody would have hired Bobby Foscoe—not on the East Coast anyway. Word gets around.”

His father slowly shook his head. “Maybe it's a good thing you did change your name. I'm not sure you ever were a Foscoe—not really.”

“Don't give me that ‘I'm made of sterner stuff' garbage—I'm sick of it.”

“Face it, Bobby. You're weak—you always were.”

“I'm weak and you're strong—you think that explains everything, don't you?”

“You know the numbers just like I do: About two percent of anesthesiology residents get caught with their hand in the cookie jar, and that percentage hasn't changed in years. You're a member of the Two Percent Club, son. How do you explain it?”

“You know, I saw a study in the
American Journal of
Psychiatry
the other day. It seems they tested the air in some hospital operating rooms, and guess what they found? Fentanyl residue. They're saying second-hand environmental exposure might put anesthesiologists at greater risk of substance abuse.”

“The air in the operating rooms.”

“That's right, Dad.”

“The same air I've been breathing for thirty years.”

Kemp didn't respond.

“That's the problem with you, Bobby—you're always looking for an excuse. Shortcuts and excuses—I guess that's what two-percenters do.”

Kemp grabbed his golf bag and slung it over his shoulder.

“Where you going?”

“Back to the clubhouse.”

“We've still got six holes to finish.”

Kemp took a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to his dad.

“What's this for?”

“Our bet.”

“You haven't taken your second shot yet.”

“What's the point, Dad? What are my chances—two percent?”

“C'mon, don't get sore—”

Kemp glared at his father. “You know what I hate about playing golf with you? You think the hundred and eight bucks you shell out for my greens fee entitles you to criticize and insult me all morning. Well, forget it, old man. I don't need your money—I'll find a way to get my own, and when I do I'll tell you where you can put yours.”

Kemp turned and charged off toward the clubhouse.

7

K
emp, we need to talk.”

Kemp let out a begrudging sigh, then raised the remote to shoulder level and muted the TV. He was still dressed in his pajama bottoms and a T-shirt though it was almost noon. “It's Sunday,” he said. “Can we make this quick?”

“No, we can't.” Natalie sat down on the end of the sofa and held up an envelope with a ragged edge.

“What's that?”

“A note from St. Stephen's. They're requesting a parent-teacher's conference.”

Kemp groaned. “What'd she do now?”

Natalie took a deep breath. “She told another story.”

“I can't believe these people,” Kemp said. “Aren't they supposed to be encouraging her creativity? So she tells a tall tale from time to time—so what? Everybody stretches the truth sometimes. I'll bet you hear some whoppers from the school board when they're doing their annual fund-raiser.”

“Leah saw an angel.”

Kemp's eyebrows arched like a cat's back. “I beg your pardon?”

“An angel—she says she saw one the other day while we were driving on the 405.”

“We could use a few angels on the 405. Some of those idiots drive like—”

“It's not a joke, Kemp.”

“What do you expect, Natalie? It's an Episcopal school. They talk about angels, so now she's making up stories about angels. If we'd put her in a public school the way I wanted, maybe she'd be a little more down-to-earth.”

“They don't think she's making it up.”

Kemp blinked. “They believe she saw an angel?”

“They think
she
believes it—that's why they're concerned.”

“C'mon, it's just a story. The kid tells stories all the time.”

“They know that, Kemp. Give them a little credit, will you?

They know Leah and they've heard her stories before—this one sounded different somehow. Her teacher wants to meet with us Tuesday morning.”

“I'll be asleep Tuesday morning. I have a shift the night before.”

“What's wrong—working too hard with your little movie star? I never saw you show so much interest in a patient before.”

“Give me a break.”

“They want to see us both, Kemp.”

“You said this was a parent-teacher conference. Did they say anything about boyfriends? Domestic partners? Significant others?”

“Kemp, don't you dare—”

“What's the big deal, anyway? What's so different about this story? What does she say she saw?”

Natalie glared at him. “If you're really interested, why don't you ask her yourself?”

“Okay, I will.” He turned and shouted to the back of the house, “Hey, Leah, come here for a minute!”

“You be gentle with her,” Natalie warned. “Remember what the counselor said.”

“I remember—she's ‘externalizing her grief'—and I still say it's a crock. Give me a break, Natalie. So you got a divorce—so what? Lots of people do. It happens to kids all the time.”

“She was young,” Natalie said, “and it wasn't pretty. There was a lot of anger, and yelling, and—other things. She saw things that a little girl should never have to see.”

Leah appeared from around the corner and stood in front of them. “What? I was playing.”

“Sit down here, sweetheart,” Natalie said. “Kemp wants to talk to you.”

Leah sat down on the sofa between them and looked at Kemp. “What?”

“Your mom says you saw something unusual the other day—while the two of you were driving on the freeway.”

“So?”

“What did you see?”

“An angel. Can I go now?”

“Wait a minute. Where did you see this angel?”

“On the side of the road.”

“She was just standing there?”

“He.”

“Okay, he. What was he doing?”

“He was standing beside a smashed-up car. There was a woman in the car, and she looked like this.” She tipped her head back, closed her eyes, and let her mouth hang open a little. “The angel was standing beside her, holding his hand like this.” Once again she demonstrated, extending her hand palm-down.

“How do you know he was an angel?”

“I just know.”

“But how?”

She frowned. “I just know.”

Natalie stroked her hair. “We're not doubting you, sweetheart; we're just trying to understand. What did the angel look like? How was he dressed?”

She shrugged. “Like a man. Like anybody.”

“He wasn't wearing a white robe? He didn't have wings or a halo, like the angels you see in picture books?”

She shook her head.

Kemp looked at her doubtfully. “Then what makes you think he was an angel?”

She looked down at her feet.

“Go ahead, honey,” Natalie said. “We'll listen.”

“But you won't believe me.”

“Try me,” Kemp said.

She looked up at him. “When we drove by, he looked right at me and he went like this.” She put her index finger to her lips and went,
Shhh
.

There was a moment of silence before Kemp said, “You gotta be kidding.”

Leah scowled. “See? I told you.”

“Look, Leah, it was an automobile accident. There were probably people all over the place—cops and medics and rescue workers, right? This guy was probably just one of them. Maybe he was just telling you and your mom to move along—or maybe he was looking over your shoulder at somebody behind you.”

Leah shook her head.

“Now tell the truth,” Kemp said. “You don't really have any reason to think this guy was an angel, do you? You just made him an angel for your story—a story to tell to your class at St. Stephen's.”

Leah said nothing.

“C'mon,” Kemp said. “If you tell the truth, your mom will take you to the park.”

“Kemp!”

“I told you you wouldn't believe me,” Leah grumbled. “Can I go now?”

“No,” Natalie said, staring furiously at Kemp. “I'm going to take you to the park—like I promised. I think we could both stand to get out of this house for a while.”

When the girls finally left and the door slammed shut behind them, Kemp raised the remote and unmuted the TV. A news update on KTTV Fox 11 was airing a segment on the tragic automobile accident involving movie star Liv Hayden.

Kemp leaned forward and turned up the volume.

“The accident occurred early Thursday morning on the 405 just south of the Santa Monica Freeway,” the announcer said. “Hayden was apparently driving at high speed when she lost control of her vehicle and flipped several times. Rescue teams and emergency personnel arrived on the scene shortly thereafter, only to find the car so badly demolished that it took rescue workers hours to free Hayden from the vehicle. Hayden was immediately transported to nearby UCLA Medical Center, where she remains in intensive care. Ms. Hayden's publicist declined to comment on the extent of her injuries. However, her agent, Morton Biederman, had this to say to Fox 11 . . .”

Biederman
, Kemp thought.
This oughta be good
.

The scene switched to show a forlorn-looking man in sunglasses with a half dozen microphones shoved in his face. “This is a tragic day for movie fans everywhere,” Biederman said. “Olivia Hayden is at death's door. I was able to visit her briefly at UCLA last night and I was devastated by what I saw. She's fighting for her life right now, but I've known Olivia for twenty years and she has the heart of a true champion. If anyone can come back from this, she can. Please, I'm asking for everyone's thoughts and prayers on her behalf.”

Kemp shook his head in disdain.
“At death's door”—what
a joke. In a few days they'll shut off the propofol and she'll wake
up with a headache and a pair of black eyes—big deal. The old
shyster's just setting her up to look like a miraculous recovery,
that's all. “I'm asking for everyone's thoughts and prayers”—
that's a good one. What he's asking is for everyone to run out
and buy her DVDs
.

He raised the remote again and began to press the button mechanically, surfing through the channels until a familiar image caught his eye. He stopped and looked; it was the cover of the book he had seen in the nurses' break room just the night before.