Confucius Jane (28 page)

Jane's eyes shifted left, then right. Realizing she was trapped, she sighed. “All right. Follow me.”

Sutton trailed her into the adjoining room, where an array of couches and chairs faced the large tube television hulking in the far corner. “This is the family room,” Jane said blandly.

Sutton looked over her shoulder, and when she realized they were alone, she slipped her arms around Jane's waist. “You know this isn't what I want to see.”

“You asked for a tour.”

“Let me be more specific, then.” Sutton stood on her toes and gently nipped at Jane's chin. “I want to see your room.”

“If I show you, what do I get?”

Sutton drew back, frowning. “Oh, let's see—to come home with me tonight?”

“You weren't going to let me anyway?”

“Well, I was—but now I'm not so sure.”

“Fine. Let's go upstairs.”

Sutton batted her eyelashes. “I thought you'd never ask.”

Jane sighed again, though Sutton could tell she was fighting back a smile. After leading her up two staircases, she pushed open a creaky door and gestured for her to enter. “Et voilà, as the French say. My room. Which I share with my youngest cousin. Which is humiliating. Okay. Now you've seen it. Let's go.”

“No, wait.”

Sutton turned in a full circle, taking in the loft space beneath the roof. It was amazingly tidy for a room shared by two people—one of them a preteen. Min's bed had to be the one with the pink coverlet, and the desk looked to be mostly used by her as well, if the bottles of nail polish arranged along one side were any indication. Jane's bed was covered with a blanket stitched in the pattern of the Brazilian flag, and her clothes were arranged neatly inside a set of stacking milk crates. A few cardboard boxes tucked under the eaves likely held the rest of her possessions.

“Come here.” When Jane approached, Sutton wrapped her arms around her neck. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. Do you understand?”

Jane nodded but wouldn't look at her. So Sutton moved both hands to cup her face. “I mean it. I want you to trust me. Trust me with this. Okay?”

After a moment, Jane nodded. “Okay.”

Her eyes were greener than Sutton had ever seen them. They reminded her of a forest refuge, dark and peaceful after the perpetual freneticism of the city. And then Jane looked away, severing the moment. Sutton watched her throat work as she swallowed hard, and wondered what she was thinking. Far more than a penny's worth, she was certain.

“We should probably go back downstairs,” Jane said. “Did you want to stay a while? Or no?”

“Will you come home with me?”

Thankfully, she smiled. “Of course. I kept my end of the bargain, didn't I?”

As they descended the stairs, Sutton decided they needed a return to lighter matters. “So, now that I've experienced your family dinner, you have to tell me how you do it.”

“Do what?”

“Have five conversations at once.”

Jane laughed and reached back for Sutton's hand. “You just have to relax. Go with the flow. Listen.”

“I'm a good listener.”

“You are. But you're also hyper aware of your surroundings. You have to be willing to miss something, once in a while. To see the whole forest, instead of just trees.”

Sutton didn't quite know how to reply. Jane's verbal echo of her internal metaphor was rather eerie, but more importantly, she was right. She saw so much. Was that what made her so difficult to resist? That she was the only person who had ever looked at Sutton and seen the whole picture?

Suddenly wanting no barriers between them, Sutton gripped Jane's hand. “Let's say our good-byes and go back to my apartment.”

Jane paused and turned. “Okay,” she said a moment later, leaving Sutton to wonder what she had seen in her face.

The sound of the television led them back into the family room, where they found everyone gathered watching the local evening news. The boys were sitting still for once, mesmerized by someone's smart phone. Jenny and John sat close together on the couch, holding hands, and Sutton smiled at the sight. She didn't know many older couples who still shared such easy affection. Certainly, her own parents had lost it, if they'd ever had it in the first place.

“We're going to head out,” Jane said over the sound of the news anchor, who was just introducing a new story from the Upper East Side.

“Thank you all for a wonderful evening,” Sutton said. “Dinner was delicious, and—” The words froze in her throat as she suddenly heard the anchor say her father's name.

“What's wrong?” John asked loudly.

“Shh!” Jane hissed. “Quiet.”

Sutton couldn't look away from the television. In the hush that had fallen over the room, the newscast came through with crystalline clarity.

“The allegation emerged this afternoon from a woman asserting that Dr. St. James coerced her into an affair when she was his patient. St. James, who has been married for thirty-five years and has one daughter with his wife, Priscilla, has made no comment. It is unclear at this time as to whether the medical licensing board will investigate the matter.”

“Oh my god.” Sutton couldn't feel her fingertips, and her cheeks were tingling. Her rational brain recognized the signs of hyperventilation. Slow, deep breaths. She had to take slow, deep breaths. But when she tried, her lungs wouldn't fill and she began to cough.

“We'll be in the kitchen,” Jane said sharply.

The words sounded as though they were coming from far away. But then warm, gentle hands were on her waist, guiding her through a doorway. And then, moments later, she was enfolded in a familiar embrace. Jane. She always smelled so good. Why was that?

“Hey,” she was saying. “I've got you. Breathe with me, okay? In and out. That's right.”

Gradually, the heat of Jane's body permeated her skin, thawing her paralyzed lungs and freeing her from the stupor of shock. With a shudder, she pulled away just enough to meet Jane's eyes. A patient? Her father had had an affair with a patient?

“My mother. I have to go to her.”

“I know, baby. I know. Do you want me to come with you?”

“Yes.” And then Sutton shook her head. “But that's not a good idea. She must be so overwhelmed. She's going to have a flare-up, if she hasn't already.”

Jane nodded. She leaned down to gently kiss Sutton's cheek, and then stepped away. “I understand. You'll call me if there's anything you need, right? I want to help however I can.”

“Okay.” Sutton pulled out her phone, wanting to call her mother as soon as she was outside. She had to be so angry. So sad. So frightened. How could he have done this? To her. To their family. To the reputation he cared so much for. How? “I'll send you a text when I can.”

“You know … it might not be true.”

Sutton looked up, feeling her mouth twist into a grimace. “I wish I believed that.” She took another deep breath, forcing her expression to soften. “But you're right. Thank you. For everything.”

She made her way quickly down the hallway, feeling suddenly claustrophobic. She had to get out. Had to get home. Had to fix this, or at least try. That was what she did. Who she was. Who she had trained to be, all her life. The one who fixed what was broken.

“Sutton!”

Jane's voice followed her, and she forced herself to turn. Backlit by the kitchen lamp, Jane was a tall, slender shadow at the mouth of the corridor. Her face was invisible.

“Anything. Anytime. I mean it.”

Sutton nodded. She couldn't think in here. She had to get out. “I'll call you later,” she said before spinning to open the door.

By the time it closed behind her, she was halfway down the stairs.

 

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

A
S SOON AS HER
feet hit the sidewalk, Sutton lurched into motion. While she ran, she fumbled with her phone. Her thumb slipped, accidentally selecting Jane's name. Cursing, she backtracked and finally touched her mother's grainy photograph, making the call.

The line rang once, twice, three times before Maria picked up. “Sutton?”

“Maria. Where's Mom?”

“She's lying down in the guest bedroom.” Usually unflappable, Maria sounded positively sick with worry. “She complained of a headache. Sutton, your father…”

“I saw on the news,” she said quickly, not wanting her to say the words out loud. “Is he there, too?”

“He's locked himself in his office. I heard him talking on the telephone.”

Sutton dashed across the street, where she managed to flag down a cab. “I'm coming home,” she said, yanking open the door. “Just make sure Mom stays in bed until I get there, okay?”

“Be careful.”

She watched the cityscape pass in a smear of light. Could it be true? Was her father capable of doing that to her mother? Of seducing—no,
coercing
—another woman behind her back while she was sick? Her father was as selfish and entitled as he was skilled at saving people's lives. But just because the allegation could be true didn't mean it was. While she could imagine him having an affair, the charge that he had done so with a patient was hard to swallow. He had always taken medical ethics very seriously. Perhaps this woman was lying. Perhaps her father had spurned her, and she was trying to bring him down out of spite.

Closing her eyes, she focused on her breathing. Right now, no matter what she might be feeling, she had to stay calm and strong for her mother. In an effort to center herself, she flashed back to the memory of Jane holding her only minutes earlier. Miraculously, as she relived that gentle, comforting embrace, her nausea began to ebb. If only Jane could be here with her right now. Should she have allowed it? But she had been selfish enough where Jane was concerned, and her mother wouldn't want a stranger seeing her during such a vulnerable time. Sutton would have to navigate these fraught waters alone.

As the cab turned onto her block, she sat up in alarm. Several white news vans were parked further down the street, and a crowd had gathered in front of her parents' townhouse.

“Stop here! Please,” she added belatedly. All the major networks appeared to have sent someone to cover the story, and their numbers were likely swelled by random passersby who had stopped to gawk. She was going to have to push her way through to get home. Just perfect. If only her father hadn't insisted on keeping such a high profile in the media, he might have spared their family this madness.

Gritting her teeth, she exited the car and moved forward briskly, leading with one shoulder as she reached the edge of the crowd. “Excuse me. Excuse me.”

Thankfully, no one seemed to recognize her. But when she turned onto the short brick path leading up to the stairs, she instantly became the focus of every single reporter in the mix. Shouts went up like the baying of hounds at a foxhunt.

“Miss, Miss!”

“Are you the daughter?”

“Do you live here?”

“What do you think of the allegations against Dr. St. James?”

“Did you know your father was having an affair with a patient?”

Sutton kept her eyes trained on the front door. But when she pulled her keys out of her pocket, her fingers trembled and they fell to the second step. Before she could lean down, one of the press darted in and grabbed them.

Red tinged her vision as she spun to face the perpetrator. “Give me my keys. Now.”

He stuck a microphone in her face. “Give me a quote.”

Sutton narrowed her eyes, looking from the keys, dangling just out of reach, to the reporter's smug face. For the first time in her life, she wanted to hit someone, Hippocratic Oath be damned. Right now, nothing was more important than getting to her mother's bedside.

She held out her hand, palm up. “I don't know what's going on. Just leave us alone.”

After a moment, the man dropped the keys into her hand. “You're the daughter, right?”

Sutton turned without replying, and this time, she kept a tight grip as she fit her key into the door. After slipping inside, she closed and locked it as quickly as she could, then leaned back against it, inhaling deeply. If only she could feel safe here, but this was just another version of the lion's den outside.

“Sutton? Is that you?”

Maria's voice filtered down the stairs, and Sutton pushed herself away from the door. “It's me. I'm coming up.”

Moments later, she knocked on the guest room door, then slowly pushed it open. The room was illuminated only by the lamp on the desk where Maria sat knitting. Sutton's gaze went immediately to the bed, where her mother lay covered by a blanket.

“How's she doing?” she murmured.

“I'm awake, Sutton.” Priscilla's voice was thin and reedy.

“How are you feeling, Mom?” As Sutton approached the bedside, she saw the cool compress on her mother's forehead. Her eyes were barely open, as though even the dim lighting pained them. Dropping down to one knee, Sutton gently touched the back of her hand. She could make out a faint age spot near one knuckle that she had never noticed before.

“My head is throbbing, and when I sit up, I feel dizzy. Do you think I have vertigo?”

Sutton squeezed her hand. “I think this was probably caused by stress, and that it'll pass in a little while. Did you take anything?”

“Just some ibuprofen.” She closed her eyes and turned her head away.

“Okay.” Sutton settled back on her heels, hoping that if she waited patiently, her mother might start talking about the real problem. But as the minutes wore on, she realized that wasn't going to happen. Closing her own eyes, she tried to find the right words to ask the questions that needed answers.

“Mom … I know you're not feeling well, but we should talk about what's happening.”