For All Their Lives (39 page)

“You cut your hair,” he said stupidly.

“And my fingernails and toenails. I also gave up on what you always called my manicured eyebrows. I guess you could say this is the real me. It's because of Jenny. She takes all my time. I just don't have time or energy to do all those personal things anymore.” She laughed. “I don't shop either.”

Too little too late,
Mac thought as he turned to chuck Jenny under the chin. “Are you being a good girl for your mommy?” He wiped at her drooling mouth with a tissue from the front seat.

He was about to close the door when Alice spoke.

“What does Lily Gia's son look like?” Her voice was so wistful, Mac's throat constricted.

“He was just a baby when I saw him last. He looks more American than Asian. He was a sturdy little guy. Thanks for bringing the letter by. I appreciate it.” He backed away from the car, Jenny slapping at the windows. Alice would be a physical wreck by the time she got home.
Too little too late.

 

T
HE VICTORY PARTY
for newly elected senator Malcolm Carlin was held at Stone Acres, Mac's Virginia home, the Saturday after Thanksgiving. The list of invited guests read like
Who's Who.
It was hinted that the power and the money in one room alone could have sustained a third world country for twenty years. The ordinary people, as the press referred to them, mingled with the high rollers. Mac's personal friends, his army buddies, and his old pals from West Point, claimed most of his attention, which just went to prove, one reporter wrote, that Carlin was “a regular guy for regular people.”

The obligatory toast at the start of the festivities was made by Justice Marcus Carlin. Only Alice correctly interpreted the anger and hatred in his eyes as she took her place next to Mac. “To Senator Carlin—long may he reign in office—and to his lovely wife, Alice.”

“Congratulations, Mac. If Jenny was capable of understanding, she'd be very proud of her daddy,” Alice said softly.

The camera caught Mac looking down at his wife, a smile on his lips.

He had a new life now.

I
T WAS THE
Monday after Thanksgiving, Singin and Maline's day off from the hospital. Casey was invited to dinner, her first outing away from the hospital since the day she'd been admitted. Maline, Singin said, was preparing a belated Thanksgiving feast for the three of them, the same kind of dinner they'd had in the United States when they both were students there.

“We will have one other guest for dinner. He arrives by taxi as we speak. I wanted you settled comfortably,” Singin said quietly as he expertly maneuvered the small car through traffic.

Casey started to tremble. She was out of her cocoon, exposed to the outside world. And she was deathly afraid of what Singin's visitor would have to say. His name was Alan Carpenter, and he was the reconstructive surgeon Singin spoke of constantly, his beloved teacher. Together, the two surgeons would decide how best to proceed in regard to restructuring her face. She'd been permitted to see it just one week ago. She'd known it was bad, but nothing had prepared her for the horror she saw in the mirror. If Maline hadn't been holding her, she would have fainted. “There's no way you can fix this,” she had croaked hoarsely. “Don't even try.”

“You're thinking about your face,” Singin said, interrupting her thoughts. “I can feel your horror, Lily. No doctor gives guarantees, you know that, but I feel that Alan will agree that we can do it, if you're game. It will be another year, possibly two, out of your life, and I think Alan will want to take you back to the States. We have a modern hospital here, but not like the facilities Alan has at his disposal. I feel you should take full advantage of their help. It's a small matter to have all your records transferred back to the States, and you're well enough to travel now. Maline and I want this for you. You have a whole life ahead of you, Lily. So please, have an open mind with Alan. Then, when you're well and beautiful again, Maline and I want you to be in our wedding. We will wait for your recovery. It's that important to both of us.”

“You want me to get on an airplane where people will
see
me?” Casey whispered. “Children will be frightened.” Tears rolled down her cheeks.

“It's the only way for you to get back to New York. You can, of course, wear a veil.”

“A veil will be . . . yes, a veil. I'm so afraid, Singin.”

“I know. I probably would be too. You must think of the future. You will want to marry someday and have children. If you hide away and refuse to go through with this, you will always regret it.”

What husband, what children, what
life
was he talking about? How was she to earn a living? Should she rise up from the dead now and say who she really was? To what end? Two years was such a long time. One hundred four weeks. Seven hundred and thirty days. Hours and hours of operations and pain. More skin grafts, more very painful skin grafts.

“I'd be very happy to be in your wedding,” she said, “but I don't think you should wait. Marry Maline now.”

“No. It is not time for us to marry. We have just come to terms with our feelings for one another. It will be a short two years. You must view it the same way.”

“When . . . when would I leave?”

“In five or six weeks. Alan is prepared to stay this long. We discussed with him your leaving right after New Year's. Providing everything goes . . . well. You understand?”

Of course she understood. As the chopper pilots used to say, it was a crapshoot.

The skies opened in a burst of rain. If there was one thing she hated about Thailand, it was the monsoon rains. She clamped her lips tight. She was certain it was an omen of some kind.

They rode in silence, each busy with their thoughts, until Singin said, “Here we are.”

It was a modest building, and the apartment even more modest. She swayed sickeningly at the smell of roasting turkey. She allowed herself to be hugged by Maline, who was attired in Levi's jeans and a tee-shirt that said
NEW YORK YANKEES
on the front. The shirt and jeans had been laundered many times. On her tiny feet Maline wore Keds sneakers. Another concession to Americanization.

“Welcome to my home,” Maline said shyly.

“It's lovely,” Casey said honestly. She was about to say that the open, airy feel of the place reminded her of a California house. She caught herself just in time. How could she know what houses in California looked like if she was pretending to have amnesia? It was true that amnesia patients remembered all manner of strange things and events. But it was better to continue as she was, so she didn't make a mistake. The decor was Eastern, right down to the pillows, which were made of violet, red, yellow, blue, and green fabrics. There were chairs set up around a folding card table—another concession to Casey, who couldn't squat and bend without pain. They were being so wonderful to her.

“When I was in your country, I fell in love with fireplaces and snow. I always said when I had my own place I was going to decorate it the way Americans decorate their homes, with many trinkets and mementos, but here, it didn't look right. Here, because space is so limited, one must not . . . clutter. Do you really like it?” Maline asked anxiously.

“Yes. It reflects you, Maline. I love the colors of the cushions.”

Casey continued to walk around the tiny apartment, which was really one large room serving as living room, dining room, kitchen, and bedroom. The strategic use of lacquered screens as partitions made it all possible. If she herself lived here, she would prepare only sandwiches, as more than one pot or dish in the kitchen area would make the room look cluttered.

“We have many things to drink,” Maline said, playing the perfect hostess. She motioned for Casey to sit on a Western-style chair that Casey was certain had been borrowed for the occasion. She sank down into the softness gratefully.

“Fruit juice, soft drinks, beer, or gin?”

“It doesn't matter, anything will be fine.”

“Let's have beer,” Maline said sprightly. “I even have pretzels. Oh, dear, Lily, I hope they're not too difficult for you to chew.” Her eyes implored Singin to help her take her foot out of her mouth.

“On the contrary, it is time for Lily to experiment a little more. She must start to chew.”

It was a habit they had—talking around her like she wasn't there, or at least didn't count. Making decisions for her. She felt a head rush that passed as quickly as it had arrived. “She has to try harder.” Try? Did they have any idea how painful it was for her to chew, even now, months after the wires were removed from her jaw?

“Will she be able to enjoy this meal?” Maline asked anxiously. “I wish I knew if she remembers what Thanksgiving is. If it's just another meal, it will be spoiled for all of us.”

“Nonsense,” Singin said sharply. “We will explain it in detail. Besides, Maline, Thanksgiving is past. It really is just a dinner. The object of this meal was to get Lily away from the hospital and to meet Alan in a more relaxed atmosphere.”

He was doing it again, talking around her, but in a kindly way. They must think me an idiot, she thought. She was instantly ashamed of herself for thinking it. Maline and Singin were the kindest, most wonderful people she'd ever met. In the early days, when she had lost track of her life and could only tell time by light versus dark, they'd sat with her, comforting her. More often than not it had been in the evening—that much she did remember. Maline always made a point of mentioning the date and the hour. Casey knew it was to give her a sense of reality.

Casey realized for the first time that there was music in the room, soft music, something that sounded like a flute and a harp with bird and waterfall sounds. The same kind of music they played for her at the hospital. It was relaxing, soothing, a balm. She felt herself start to relax.

“It is cold,” Maline said, handing over a glass of orangy-pink melon juice.

The hours passed pleasantly enough, with the turkey cooking and conversation about living in the United States. Casey found it interesting, and loved the fact that both of them were willing to share their experiences with her.

When the knock they'd all been waiting for finally came, just as Maline was mashing the potatoes, Casey spilled her juice. She turned her head the moment she heard the strange voice. Tears burned her eyes. This man, according to Singin, was supposed to be her savior. In her heart she hoped he was, but she didn't really believe it.

“This is our friend and our patient, Lily Simon. Lily, this is Alan Carpenter, the doctor I spoke to you about.”

Lily raised her eyes, certain she would see revulsion, dismay, hopelessness. She was stunned when the man smiled at her and offered his hand.

“I've heard a lot about you, young lady. I'm pleased to finally meet you. Ah, I see I arrived in the nick of time. Dinner is being served. Please, allow me to lead you to the table.” He held out his arm, which Casey took gratefully while he continued his running conversation. “It looks like Thanksgiving. I just had a dinner like this a few days ago and managed to put on five or six pounds.”

He looked like someone's father, or at least the way she'd always wanted her own father to look. He was round, but not fat. His face, by contrast, was angular. He was older than Singin by a good many years. Early sixties, she decided, with the kindest, warmest, most compassionate eyes she'd ever seen. He was right up there with Luke Farrell. But his eyes twinkled; Luke's didn't. He was almost bald, his lack of head hair in direct contrast with his incredibly bushy eyebrows. She thought she could come to like Alan Carpenter.

Halfway through dinner she nearly dropped the cranberry sauce from her fork when she heard Alan say, “It's not hopeless, we can fix it. And I think, Singin, that you have lost your American ways. What have you been doing to this man, Maline?”

“Loving him,” she said boldly.

“I see. Is a wedding in the offing?” He chuckled.

Casey's heart fluttered in her chest. Not hopeless. Her face could be fixed. She ate the cranberries.

“When Lily is well and ready to be in our wedding party. Perhaps we will come to the States and have the wedding there.”

“Great idea. We'll have it at my house,” Carpenter said, digging into his turkey. “What do you think, Lily?”

“I think it's a wonderful idea, but I told them they shouldn't wait.”

“Oh, why is that?” he asked nonchalantly.

“Two years is a very long time. Many things can happen. I think,” she said, her voice slightly frantic, “I don't know how I . . . why I . . .”

“Don't worry about it. You're right. Get married now,” he said to Singin, “and then we'll marry you again in the States. See,” he said blithely, “the problem is solved.”

Casey accepted her slice of pumpkin pie. That's what she'd been drinking—pumpkin juice. She felt as though she'd solved the problems of the universe. “It's pumpkin juice,” she blurted. Three pairs of eyes stared at her.

“You didn't know?” Maline asked in surprise. “Why didn't you ask?”

Casey shrugged. “I need to find these things out on my own.”

“Rightly so. I'll have a big slice, Maline,” Carpenter said, holding out his plate. He had beautiful hands, Casey thought, with long, slender fingers and bluntly cut nails—surgeon's hands, a pianist's hands. She thought about Luke Farrell again. Did he believe she was dead? She would probably never know.

The moment the meal was over, Maline ordered her guests to go for a walk. “I must tidy up, and then Lily must be taken back to the hospital. A short walk.” It didn't occur to any of them to object. With a doctor on each side of her, holding her arms, they walked down the length of the short street and then back again.

“I think, Lily,” Alan Carpenter said, “that we can be successful as long as you are prepared to gut it out. Can you? I need to know now. Tomorrow I'll go through all your files, run some additional tests, and make my decisions. I plan to return to the States right after the first of the year, on the second or third. We'll start your paperwork now. It will take that long.”

“I don't understand. You've barely looked at me. I can . . . gut it out, as you say. I think I am capable of doing whatever it takes to . . . to become whole again. It doesn't matter to me when we leave, as long as I can wear a veil.”

“Then we're in business. You're wrong about me barely looking at you. I observed you all during dinner. Don't forget, I know everything there is to know about you. I've studied the pictures Singin sent on to me. We're a team now, if that's agreeable.”

“Yes,” Casey said breathlessly. “Oh, yes.”

“Oh, by the way,” Carpenter said, “I brought along a copy of yesterday's
New York Times.
You might like to read it this evening. Who knows? Perhaps you might see something that will trigger a memory. These things happen,” he said kindly.

 

T
HINGS HAPPEN ALL
right, Casey thought as she read the paper. She felt the blood drain from her face when she saw Mac staring up at her, smiling. She tried to swallow, to shake off the wave of dizziness. It was a long time before she felt her strength return. She read the gossipy article slowly, her finger running along under each word. She stared intently at the picture of Mac's wife, Alice, and their child. Senator Malcolm Carlin. She didn't cry—there was nothing to cry for.

The hospital was asleep, for it was after midnight when Casey walked down to the nurses' station to ask for a pair of scissors. “I wish to cut something from the newspaper. I'll return them as soon as I finish.” The nurse didn't think anything of it and handed over the scissors. She did mention it to the day nurse when she came on duty, who immediately reported to Dr. Vinh, who in turn reported to Dr. Carpenter. The waste basket in Casey's room was confiscated and the paper sent to the doctor's quarters, where both surgeons stared at the cut-out section of the paper.