Confucius Jane (32 page)

“How is she this morning, Mary?” Sutton asked the nurse at the on-call station.

“She had a restless night.” Mary's tone was professional, but her eyes were sympathetic. “They're doing another CT scan now.”

Sutton nodded, unsurprised. Her mother had gone through an MRI upon being admitted, which had confirmed the presence of new lesions in her brain. Since then, Priscilla had suffered two more seizures, which had left her alternately confused and anxious—sometimes so anxious that she required medication to calm down. Sutton was glad the attending physician had ordered another test, even as she feared that it might confirm that her mother had crossed over to the more serious “secondary progressive” stage of the disease.

“I'll just sit in the waiting room, then. You'll let me know when she's out?”

“Of course.”

Sutton perched on a hard plastic chair and stared absently at the television. It was easy to tune out the drone of the talk show when her mind was in such turmoil. The past few days had only increased her desire to pursue the opportunity she'd been offered in Sweden—to devote her life to finding a cure for this insidious disease that was laying waste to her mother's mind and to her quality of life. Only two short weeks remained before she had to make a choice: Columbia or Lund. She knew what she wanted. But could she in good conscience make plans to go overseas right now, when her family was in crisis? Definitely not until her mother's physical condition was at least stable—and then, of course, there was her mental state to think of. If all these new allegations were true, would Priscilla want a divorce?

Sutton wouldn't blame her mother at all if she did want to separate from her father. Maybe she should even encourage her to do it. He called every evening like clockwork, but to Sutton, what looked like dedication smacked of showboating. Was she being perceptive, or overly critical? When she thought about what he was accused of doing, the anger welled up so hot and fierce that it hijacked her intellect. Sutton removed her glasses and massaged her temples in an effort to stave off a rising headache. When he called tonight, she was going to have to do more than pass the phone to her mother. They needed to decide whether to keep Priscilla out here on Long Island or risk having her transported back into the city. Hopefully, she would have a lucid period later today, so Sutton could actually ask what she wanted. The question was, did she have her own best interests at heart anymore? Was she in her “right mind” at this point?

The television had switched from a talk show to a news segment, but Sutton couldn't focus enough to follow the anchor's report. She glanced down at the bag containing her laptop. When she wasn't sitting at her mother's bedside or conferring with the physicians, she was reading everything she could lay her hands on about the latest theories in the treatment of multiple sclerosis. Much of it she already knew from writing her postdoctoral proposal, but since then, a few new medications had come onto the market. The first problem was that they had terrifying side effects. The second problem was that even if she believed an experimental drug was the answer, she didn't have the power to make decisions for her mother. Only her father could make that judgment call.

Deep in her pocket, she felt her phone buzz. Grateful for the distraction, she reached for it and did an internal twirl when she saw Jane's name. Immediately, logic asserted itself, trying to censure her reaction. This was not the time to indulge in a romance. This was a time for pragmatic action.

Good morning.
☺

The smiley face made the corners of her own mouth twitch, despite everything.
Hi.

How's your mom?

Sutton shrugged even though no one would see.
Nothing much has changed. How are things with you?

I'm fine. Worried about you.
And then, a moment later, another text came through:
I miss you.

Sutton bit her lower lip. Should she return the sentiment? It was true, wasn't it? She missed Jane's unfettered smile, her chameleon eyes, her solicitous touch. But how could she encourage her, when the present was chaos and the future totally uncertain?

The words stared at her from inside the brightly colored text bubble, silently chastising her. Shouldn't she be honest? Didn't Jane deserve that much from her? She had never pushed to define their relationship, or to turn it into something more than Sutton had wanted. She had kept Sutton's secrets and offered her comfort and support. Why should Sutton withhold the truth when it was so simple? “I miss you” wasn't a protestation of love or a marriage proposal. Writing those words back to Jane wouldn't shift the fulcrum of their relationship. Would it?

Her thumbs hovered over the keypad.
I-m-i-s-

“The cast of
Saturday Night Live
weighed in on the Doctor America scandal last night.” The news anchor's words sliced through her brain like a scalpel, and she looked up so quickly that for a moment, the screen blurred. “The skit has gone viral on social media. Take a look.”

Mired in shock and disbelief, Sutton watched as the title, O
N
S
ET
W
ITH
D
OCTOR
A
MERICA
flashed onto a black screen, which faded into a familiar scene: a pair of armchairs nearly identical to the ones on the set of her father's television show. One was occupied by an actor who was clearly meant to be a caricature of her father—dressed in a lab coat over a suit, his hair was slicked back and a stethoscope hung around his neck, its ends dangling down past the tight Windsor knot at his throat. Other actors depicting the members of the crew milled about—some holding clipboards, others manning cameras. A young woman half sat, half reclined in the other armchair, her eyes at half-mast as she smoked from a tall, ornate hookah standing on the floor. As Sutton watched, a harried-looking woman hurried across the field of view to pause before fake-Reginald. The neckline of her blouse plunged sharply downward, displaying ample cleavage, which he ogled in an exaggerated fashion.

“Dr. St. James,” the woman began, “would you mind asking your daughter to extinguish her pipe? The smoke is making it difficult for us to set up proper camera angles.”

Sutton felt her mouth fall open. The woman in the chair was supposed to be her? The dread already swirling in her stomach magnified exponentially.

“Now, now, Danielle—” fake-Reginald began, his gaze still riveted on his assistant's breasts.

“It's Denise.”

“Denise, of course.” Her fake-father's voice oozed sleaze. “Sit on my lap and let's discuss this.” With a long-suffering sigh, she sat on his knee and endured his arm snaking around her waist. “I've invited my daughter onto my show to discuss Eastern medicine with us. Opium is a very important part of that discussion. Isn't that right, Sutton?”

“Confucius say, those who get too big for their britches will get exposed in the end.”

“Well said, well said.” He ran his hand up and down Denise's side. “She's very wise, don't you think?”

“Um…” Denise managed to pull out of his grasp. “Excuse me.”

As she hurried off, her fake-father's mournful expression was replaced by one of rapacious desire as a buxom brunette woman approached, holding a makeup palette. He looked her up and down and licked his lips lasciviously.

“Why, hello, Maxine.”

“It's Michelle,” the artist said brusquely, maintaining as much of a distance as she could while simultaneously powdering his face.

“Michelle, of course.” His hands reached out to cup her waist. “Don't you think you should come a little closer, Michelle?” But she pulled away from him abruptly, spinning on one heel and barging out of the scene.

Again, the camera panned to fake-Sutton, whose face was nearly obscured by a growing cloud of smoke. “Confucius say, vitamins are good for what ails you,” she slurred. “Viagra is good for what fails you.”

Fake-Reginald began to cough as the insistent mist coagulated around him. Waving his hand, he sought to clear a gap in the cloud. “Quite right, my dear.”

Through the smoke, a shaggy-haired man approached him, holding out a wireless microphone. “Okay, Dr. St. James—time for your mic check.”

When he leaned in to adjust the device, fake-Reginald stroked the man's shoulder. “I don't recognize you. What's your name? And what are your plans later tonight?”

The man recoiled, his face stretched in a comical expression of horror. “My name is Anthony and I quit!”

Fake-Reginald pulled his arm back, lips pinched in distaste. Fake-Sutton cackled gleefully. “Confucius say, the useless skin around a penis is called a man.”

A wave of dizziness swept over Sutton, and the muted light of the waiting room turned a jaundiced yellow before her eyes. Automatically, she leaned forward to put her head between her knees. But even when she could no longer see the television, she could hear the awful dialogue as her fake-father flirted with anything that moved. The nauseating sense of vertigo persisted into the newscaster's brief analysis of the skit and the “ongoing scandal.” Never in a million years had Sutton thought that phrase would ever be used to describe her life.

As she began to regain her composure, disbelief set in. Her family—her self—had just been the laughing stock of
Saturday Night Live,
and by extension, the nation. What's more, the skit had completely misrepresented her. The cast and writers had used that idiotic tabloid article about her in Sue's shop as the basis for their parody, and Sutton's dizziness returned as the implications came crashing home. How dare they? Thanks to the show, the entire country would know her not as the daughter of a man who cheated on his wife while she was ill, but as a drug-addled enabler of that betrayal. And what would Columbia think? Or even Lund? What if they believed the media's portrayal and rescinded their offers?

Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Slowly, the fresh panic faded enough to let her think. At least her mother hadn't seen the skit. Yes. Sutton could focus on that. The backlash against her family was intense right now, but would probably be short-lived. The video would go viral, but perhaps by the time Priscilla was out of the hospital, the Internet would have forgotten all about it. In the meantime, Sutton would stay at her mother's bedside and avoid the media at all costs.

But even as reason and logic marched their solutions along her neurons, bringing order to her roiling brain, the nausea lingered. Despite it, Sutton reached down for her bag and pulled out her computer, where the latest issue of
The Journal of Neuroscience
was on her hard drive. She couldn't control her father's behavior or change his past actions, but she could control herself. She would not let this time go to waste. She would not allow that ridiculous skit to torpedo her mission. Her priorities were clear: to protect her mother in the present, and do the best she could to heal her in the future. Nothing else was more important.

*   *   *

JANE SQUINTED AT HER
phone, mechanically spooning congee into her mouth as she skimmed the list of alerts in her inbox. Every mention of Sutton's name on the Internet generated a new message, and Jane forced herself to skim each article, no matter how awful it might be. Ever since Sutton's mother had been hospitalized, story after story had emerged about Priscilla St. James's “nervous breakdown.” Others speculated that her heart had quite literally broken at the news about her husband's lengthy list of conquests. Meanwhile, Reginald was being investigated by the American Medical Association for a breach of ethics. Jane hadn't been able to muster even an ounce of sympathy for him. After the way he had treated his wife and daughter, he deserved all the hard knocks the media could offer. But over the weekend, things had grown astronomically worse.
SNL
had every right in the world to lampoon Reginald, but Sutton was an innocent bystander. The writers had taken that ridiculous article about her as a blueprint, and their portrayal had made Jane want to throw her uncle's television across the room. She still didn't know if Sutton had seen it. Would it be crueler to bring it up or help to maintain her ignorance?

Only when her spoon clanged against the bottom of the bowl did Jane realize it was empty. She hadn't tasted a bite. She hadn't wanted breakfast at all, actually, but Aunt Jenny had refused to let her leave the house without eating something. Under normal circumstances, Jane would have savored every spoonful of the salty porridge, but right now she was too preoccupied. As the days had passed, Sutton's texts had grown few and far between. The lack of details only fueled Jane's speculation as her imagination tried to fill in the gaps. Was Sutton's mother improving? Had her father joined them on Long Island? Had the press continued to hound her, or were they backing off? Had she made any kind of decision about her career? Did Sutton ever miss her?

Shaking her head, she pushed back her chair. Work would at least partially distract her from the storm of questions. But just as she was getting to her feet, her phone lit up with an incoming call. Sue. As she reached out to answer it, alarm prickled the back of her neck. It wasn't even seven o'clock yet.

“Hi, Sue, is everything o—”

“Jane, Jane the store—” Sue's voice was high and thin with panic, and she suddenly switched into Mandarin. The hurried syllables made only sporadic sense to Jane. Something about broken glass, and thieves? And money?

“Sue,” she said, trying to make her voice steady. “I can't follow. Slow down, please, okay? What happened?”

Instead, Sue switched to English. “Someone broke in! The front window is shattered and there's glass everywhere and they took all the money.”

Adrenaline brought her to the balls of her feet. “Have you called the police?”