Authors: Danielle Steel
“He went to the country. I think he was very happy.” Deanna pattered on, but now her eyes sought Marc’s. What did this mean? Was she better or worse? She was reminded suddenly of the tiny baby boy who had moved so much in her arms in the few hours before he died. Philippe-Edouard. Was this the same, or was this a sign that she was improving? Neither of them knew.
“Mommy? … could I have … Augustin back? … You ask Papa. …” It was the voice of the child now. Deanna closed her eyes and took a quick breath.
“I’ll talk to Papa.”
Marc’s eyes were suddenly filled with fear. He looked at Pilar, and then Deanna. “We’ll get you a dog,
chérie.
… You’ll see. A wonderful little dog with floppy ears and a very waggly tail.” He was looking for anything he could find in his head, just to find the words to put in his mouth.
“But I want … Augustin.” The voice was plaintive now, and the nurse signaled them away. Pilar had drifted off again and she didn’t notice them leaving the room.
This time they paced up and down the hall, at first saying nothing. Without thinking, Deanna reached for Marc’s hand. “When the hell is Kirschmann coming back?”
“They said soon. Do you think she’s worse?”
Deanna nodded. “She seems nervous, fidgety, anxious.”
“But she’s talking. That might be a hopeful sign.”
“Maybe it is,” Deanna said. But there was terror in both their hearts. As they paced the hall, his arm slipped around her shoulders, and she didn’t fight him away. Suddenly she needed him there, as he needed her. He was the only person who understood, who could share what she felt, who
knew.
“Marc?” He looked at her with anguished eyes, but she only shook her head. Tears poured down her face, and silently he took her into his arms. He had nothing to say, no words of comfort, only his tears to add to hers.
They walked the long hall again, end to end, seven or eight more times, and finally sat down on two straight-backed chairs. Deanna’s eyes were glazed with fatigue. She stared at the hem of her much-creased cream skirt.
“Do you remember when she was five and we got her that dog?” She smiled to herself as she remembered. They had hidden the little puppy in a boot and left him in Pilar’s closet, ordering her to immediately open the door and pick up her clothes. And there he had been, peeking out of the boot. Pilar had squealed with delight.
Marc smiled to himself too, with the memory. “I will always remember her face.”
“So will I.” Deanna looked up at him, smiling through her tears and reached for his handkerchief to blow her nose. It was strange. Only an hour before they’d been fighting and she’d been hinting at divorce. But it didn’t matter now. Their marriage was no longer what mattered, only their child. Whatever pain had passed between them, they still shared Pilar. At that precise moment Marc was the only person who had any idea what she felt and she was the only living soul who shared his terror with him. It was as if they held each other very tightly and didn’t let go, and kept moving, and kept talking and hoping and praying … then Pilar would still be there, she couldn’t die. Deanna looked up at Marc again, and he patted her hand.
“Try to relax.”
She sighed again and put a hand over her eyes, but before she could speak, the nurse was at their side.
“Doctor Kirschmann would like to see you. He’s in with her now.”
They leaped to their feet and almost ran to the room, where he stood at the foot of the bed, alternately watching the girl and the machines. It seemed hours before they walked out to the hall.
“Docteur?”
Marc was the first to speak.
He looked grieved. “I want to give her a little more time. If things aren’t looking better in an hour, we’ll take her back to the operating room and see what we can do.”
“What do you think?” Marc wanted words from him, promises, guarantees.
“I don’t know. She’s holding on. I can’t tell you more than that.” He could have told them how good her chances were, but they weren’t, so he didn’t volunteer the odds. “Do you want to sit with her for a while?”
“Yes.” Deanna spoke first and reclaimed her post near Pilar’s head. Marc joined her.
They stood there like that for almost an hour, while Pilar slept, making strange sounds, now and then stirring, and seeming to fight for breath. Marc rested one hand on the bed, feeling the little frail body near him, his eyes never leaving her face. Deanna held her hand and waited. For something … for hope. The hour was almost over when at last she woke.
“Thirsty.…”
“In a little while, darling.” Deanna’s words were a gentle whisper caressed by a smile. She touched the girl’s forehead with an infinitely light hand. “In a while, my love. Now sleep. Mommy and Papa are here, darling. Sleep … you’re going to feel so much better, very soon.”
And then Pilar smiled. It was a real smile, despite the tubes, and it tore at Marc’s and Deanna’s hearts.
“I feel… better … now.”
“I’m glad,
chérie.
And you’ll feel much better tomorrow. Mommy is right.” Marc’s voice was as soft as a summer breeze. Once again Pilar smiled and closed her eyes.
It was only a moment later when the doctor stepped back in and nodded for them to go out.
He whispered to them as they left. “We’ll prepare her for surgery now. You can step back in in just a moment.” He turned, and they went outside. Deanna felt breathless now too, as though like Pilar she had to fight for air. The hallway was at the same time too cold and too stuffy, and she had to hold on to Marc for support. It was four o’clock in the morning, and neither of them had slept in two days.
“She said she felt better.” Marc held out the slim hope and Deanna nodded. “I thought her color was a little better too.”
Deanna was about to say something but Dr. Kirschmann reappeared, coming down the length of the hall.
“Merde.
He ought to be spending his time with Pilar, dammit. Not looking for us.” Marc began to walk toward him, but Deanna stopped. She already knew and clutched Marc’s arm. She knew, and she could walk no further. The world had just ended. Pilar was dead.
17
The sun was just coming up as they left the hospital. It had taken more than an hour to sign the papers and make the arrangements. Marc had decided that he wanted the funeral held in France. Deanna didn’t care. One of her babies was buried in California, the other in France. It didn’t matter to her now. And she suspected that Pilar herself would have preferred it. Dr. Kirschmann had been sympathetic and kind. There had been nothing for him to do. She had been much too far gone when they brought her in from the South of France. The blow to her head had been too severe, and he marveled only that she hadn’t died in the moments after the accident. “Ahh… motorcycles!” he said as Marc visibly cringed.
They had been offered coffee, which they had refused, and finally they were through. Marc took her arm and guided her gently toward the street. She felt as though her brain had ceased to function within the last hour. She couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t even feel. She had gone through all the formalities mechanically, but she felt as though she too had died.
Marc walked her to the little blue Renault and unlocked the door.
“Whose car is this?” It was a strange question to ask on a morning like that, but her eyes stared at him almost blindly as she spoke.
“It doesn’t matter, get in. Let’s go home.” He had never felt so tired, or so lost, or alone. All his hopes had been dashed, all his joys, all his dreams. It didn’t even matter to him now that he had Deanna, and Chantal. He had lost Pilar. The tears rolled slowly down his face again as he started the car, and this time he let them flow unchecked. He didn’t care.
In her seat Deanna put her head back and closed her eyes, feeling a knot in her chest and a lump in her throat. There was a lifetime of crying lodged there, but for the moment it wouldn’t come out.
They drove slowly through Paris, as street cleaners swept and the sun shone too brightly on the pavement. It should have been a day of rain and heavy mist, but it wasn’t, and the bright sun made the horror seem a lie. How could she be gone on a day like this? But she was … she was—gone. The thought kept running through Marc-Edouard’s head—gone—while Deanna stared unseeingly out of the window.
The maid was already at the door when they reached the Duras apartment, still draped in her bathrobe. She had heard the elevator and come running to know. Marc-Edouard’s face said it all. Silently she began to cry.
“Shall I wake Madame?”
Marc shook his head. There was no point waking her now. The bad news could wait.
“Some coffee, monsieur?”
This time he nodded and softly closed the door as Deanna stood by, feeling lost. He looked at her for a moment, wiped his eyes, and held out a hand. Without saying more, she took it, and they walked slowly to their room.
The shades were drawn, the shutters were closed, the bed was turned down, but somehow Deanna did not want to go to bed. She couldn’t face it, couldn’t bear lying there and thinking, couldn’t bear knowing that Pilar was dead. Marc Edouard sank into a chair and put his face in his hands. Slowly the sobs came again. Deanna went to him and held his shoulders in her hands, but there was nothing more she could do. At last he cried himself out, and she helped him to the bed.
“You should try to sleep.” She whispered it to him as she had to Pilar.
“And you?” His voice was hoarse when he spoke.
“I will. Later. Didn’t you bring a bag?” She looked around the room in surprise. None of his things was there.
“I’ll get it later.” He closed his eyes. Picking up his bag meant seeing Chantal. He would have to tell her about Pilar. As he would have to tell his mother. And their friends. He couldn’t bear it. Telling them would make it real. The tears seeped out of the corners of his eyes again. Finally, he drifted to sleep.
Only Deanna drank the coffee when it came. She took her cup to the salon, where she sat alone, looking out over the rooftops of Paris, thinking of her child. She felt peaceful as she sat there, thinking, looking at the gilt-edged morning sky. Pilar had been so many things, and not often easy in recent years, but eventually she would have grown up. They would have been friends….
Would have been.
It was hard to imagine. She felt as though Pilar were right there, nearby, and in no way lost. It was inconceivable to her that they would no longer talk, or laugh, or argue, that Pilar would no longer fling that long golden hair like a mane, or flash those blue eyes to get whatever she might want, that Deanna’s slippers would no longer be borrowed, her lipstick wouldn’t be gone, her favorite robe wouldn’t disappear along with her best coat. … As she thought of it, the tears finally came in great waves. She knew, finally, that Pilar was no more.
“Deanna?” It was the old woman, standing in the center of the room, looking like a statue in an icy-blue robe. “Pilar?”
Deanna shook her head and closed her eyes. Madame Duras steadied herself on a chair.
“Oh, my God. Oh,
bon Dieu … bon Dieu.”
And then, looking around, tears rolling down her cheeks: “Where is Marc?”
“Asleep, I think. In bed.” Her mother-in-law nodded and silently left the room. There was nothing she could say, but Deanna hated her once more for not even trying. It was her loss too, but she owed Deanna the words at least.
On tiptoe Deanna walked back to their room. She was afraid to wake Marc and she opened the door very quietly. He was still sleeping, snoring softly. This time, as she watched him, he no longer looked young. His whole face seemed to sag with grief and even in sleep Deanna could see that he wasn’t at peace.
She sat for a time, watching him, wondering what would happen, what they would do. A great deal had changed in a day. Pilar. The woman she had seen him with at the airport. She realized now that was probably where he had gotten the car and where he had left his bag. She wanted to hate him for it, but now she didn’t care. She suddenly realized she had to call Ben. A glance at Marc’s watch told her that it was past eight-thirty. It would be midnight in San Francisco. He might still be up, and she had to call him now, while she could.
She ran a hand over her hair, put her jacket on again, and grabbed her handbag. She would make the call half a block away at the post office where Parisian residents without telephones made their calls. She didn’t want his number on her mother-in-law’s bill.
She felt numb as she rode downstairs in the tiny elevator and then walked the half block to the
poste.
She could not move her feet quickly and she couldn’t slow her steps either; she just kept moving at the same pace, like a machine, until she reached the post office phone booth and closed the door.
The number rang only twice, and the connection had been rapidly made. She felt herself tremble as she waited, and then she heard his voice. He sounded sleepy, and she realized then that he had already been in bed.
“Ben?”