Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [85]
Seventy-three YORK AVENUE AND 68TH STREET, finally. Michael was almost there. He burst through the front doors of New York Hospital. Ironically, he’d been to this unfortunate place before, when Jane had her tonsils out as a kid. He went right past the front desk, remembering where the elevators were. Down the long hallway, to the right. He was supposed to go to the seventh floor. Room 703. Ahead of him, people streamed into the elevator. Two nurses with their hands linked, a doctor, some visitors, a little girl who was crying for her grandfather. Why was all this suffering permitted to happen? Suddenly he was filled with questions. “I don’t think we can squeeze anyone else in here,” a doctor said to him. “Sorry,” he said. “We can squeeze, we can fit. You’d be amazed what we’re capable of.” We, he’d thought, and said. We. The people in the elevator exchanged glances, the kind of nervous looks that seemed to say: We’ve got a crazy on board. The doors finally closed, and the car began to
Seventy-four SOMEBODY ELSE was in the hospital bed. Not Jane. Not what he’d been expecting, and dreading. It was Vivienne. At first, Michael didn’t understand, but then he did, and some of the puzzle pieces seemed to fall into place for him. It was Vivienne who was dying. Vivienne who he was supposed to help. She lay there motionless. He’d never seen her like that. Her face was unnaturally pale beneath her tan, and she wore no makeup. Her hair was loose and her white roots were showing. But in a way, she looked serene and beautiful. She looked a lot like Jane, and his heart went out to her. He wanted to help, if he could. He wanted to help them both. “Vivienne,” he said. Then, to the nurse, “I’m family. Can we have a minute?” The nurse smiled at him and stood up. “I’ll be right outside. You know she had a stroke.” Vivienne opened her eyes and looked at him. Then her eyes closed again for a second or two, as if she were trying to figure something out. He spoke gently. “Vivienne, I’m her
Seventy-five WHAT IF I HADN’T MANAGED to answer the phone finally, and heard a sobbing, nearly incoherent MaryLouise tell me to get over to New York Hospital as fast as I could? After I hung up, it was almost as if I were outside my own body. I still felt awful, but I was less nauseated. Only a bit shaky and weak. I put on fresh clothes, and then it was as if I were watching someone who looked like me hurry to the lobby of her building and tell Martin the doorman to “please get me a cab.” But it was me who bolted from the cab in front of New York Hospital and who ran to the information desk and was told that Vivienne Margaux was in room 703. MaryLouise was waiting by the closed door. She kissed my cheek and shook her head back and forth. Karl Friedkin was down the hall. His head was bowed, but I could see that his eyes were full of pain. “Karl was with her when it happened,” said MaryLouise. The door to my mother’s room opened just then, and a woman in a white coat asked me if I was Ja
Seventy-six MICHAEL LOOKED AT ME and gave the slightest nod and then an understanding half smile. “Hi,” he whispered. “Trade places with me.” He stood, and I took over the bedside chair beside Vivienne. “Hi, Mother. It’s Jane. I’m here.” My mother’s head turned and her eyes met mine. She was breathing heavily. I thought she was trying to talk but couldn’t, which had never happened to her before. She had no makeup on, no perfect hairstyle. She wore a regular hospital gown, and that was when I knew how bad it was. If she’d been even a fraction of her usual self, she would have fought them over wearing that gown. Also, she seemed glad to see me. I moved closer. “What, Mother? What is it?” She spoke finally, and her voice was soft and gentle. “I was tough on you, Jane-Sweetie. I know that,” she said. Then my mother started to cry. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” “It’s okay. It’s all okay,” I told her. “But I did it so you’d be strong. I did it so you wouldn’t have to be like me. So cold and har
Seventy-seven AS SHE WISHED,