Twice Dead - Catherine Coulter [157]
“I am very tired, Tennyson,” she said and hated the small shudder in her voice. “Perhaps we could speak later?”
“Oh, no,” he said. And then he waited, saying nothing more until Dr. Larch left the room, fingering his stethoscope. He looked nervous. Lily wondered why. Tennyson closed the door, paused yet again, studying her, then, finally, he walked to stand beside her bed. He gently eased her hand out from under the covers, something she wished he wouldn’t do, rubbed his fingers over her palm for several moments before saying in a sad, soft voice, “Why did you do it, Lily? Why?”
He made it sound like it was all over for her. No, she was being ridiculous. She said, “I don’t know that I did anything, Tennyson. You see, I have no memory at all of the accident.”
He waved away her words. He had strong hands, confident hands. “I know and I’m sorry about that. Look, Lily, maybe it was an accident, maybe somehow you lost control and drove the Explorer into the redwood. One of the nurses told me that the Forest Service has someone on the spot to see how badly the tree is injured.”
“Dr. Rossetti already told me. Poor tree.”
“It isn’t funny, Lily. Now, you’re going to be here for at least another two or three days, until they’re sure your body is functioning well again. I would like you to speak with Dr. Rossetti. He’s a new man with quite an excellent reputation.”
“I’ve already seen him. I don’t wish to see him again, Tennyson.”
His voice changed now, became even softer, more gentle, and she knew she would normally have wanted to cry, to fold into herself, to have him reassure her, tell her the bogeyman wouldn’t come back, but not now. It was probably the morphine making her feel slightly euphoric, slightly disconnected. But she also felt rather strong, perhaps even on the arrogant side, and that, of course, was an illusion to beat all illusions.
“Since you don’t remember anything, Lily, you’ve got to admit that it wouldn’t hurt to cover all the bases. I really want you to see him.”
“I don’t like him, Tennyson. How can I speak to someone I don’t like?”
“You will see him, Lily, or I’m afraid we’ll have to consider an institution.”
“Oh? We will consider an institution? What sort of institution?” Why wasn’t she afraid of that word that brought a wealth of dreadful images with it? But she wasn’t afraid. She was looking at him positively bright-eyed. She loved morphine. She was tiring; she could feel the vagueness trying to close her down, eating away at the focus in her brain, but for this moment, maybe even the next, too, she could deal with anything.
He squeezed her hand. “I’m a doctor, Lily, a psychiatrist, as is Dr. Rossetti. You know it isn’t ethical for me to treat you myself.”
“You prescribed the Elavil.”
“That’s different. That’s a very common drug for depression. No, I couldn’t speak with you like Dr. Rossetti can. But you must know that I want what is best for you. I love you and I’ve prayed you were getting better. One day at a time, I kept telling myself. And there were some days when I knew you were healing, but I was wrong. Yes, you really must see Dr. Rossetti or I’m afraid I will have no choice but to admit you for evaluation.”
“Forgive me for pointing this out, Tennyson, but I don’t believe that you can do that. I’m here—I can see, I can talk, I can reason—I do have a say in what happens to me.”
“That remains to be seen. Lily, just speak to Dr. Rossetti. Talk to him about your pain, your confusion, your guilt, the fact that you’re beginning to accept what your ambition wrought.”
Ambition? She had such great ambition that her daughter was killed because of it?
She suddenly wanted to be perfectly clear about this. She said, “What do you mean exactly, Tennyson?”
“You know—Beth’s death.”
That hit her right between the eyes. Instant guilt, overwhelming her. No, wait, she wasn’t going to let that happen. She wouldn’t let it happen, not now. Beneath the morphine,