Lasher (77 page)

He was about to resume his old position when he spied a movement in the bedroom at the end of the hall. Must be the other nurse, he thought, but he didn’t like it, and he went down the hall to check.

For one moment, he couldn’t make out what he was
seeing—a tall gray-haired woman in a flannel gown. Sunken cheeks, bright eyes, a high forehead. Her white hair was loose over her shoulders. Her gown hung to her bare feet. The twinge in his chest became a pain.

“It’s Cecilia,” she said mercifully, patiently. “I know. Some of us Mayfairs were born looking like ghosts. I’ll come in and sit with her if you like. I’ve just slept a good eight hours. Why don’t you he down here for a little while?”

He shook his head. He felt so foolish and so badly shaken. And he hoped to God he hadn’t hurt her feelings!

He went back in to take up the vigil as before. Rowan, my Rowan.

“What’s that spot on her gown?” he asked the nurse.

“Oh, must be a little water,” said the nurse, pressing a dry washcloth to Rowan’s breast. “I was wiping her face and moistening her lips. Do you want me to massage her now, just move her arms, keep them flexible?”

“Yes, do it. Do anything and everything. Do it whenever you get bored. If she shows the slightest…”

“Of course.”

He sat down and closed his eyes. He was drifting. Julien said something to him, but he was just remembering, the long story, the image of Marie Claudette with her six fingers. Six fingers on the left hand. Rowan had had beautiful and perfect hands. Hands of a surgeon.

What if she had done what Carlotta Mayfair wanted? What her mother had wanted? What if she had never come home?

He awoke with a start. The nurse was lifting Rowan’s right leg, carefully, gently, smoothing the lotion over the skin. Look how thin, how worn. “This will keep her from getting drop foot. We have to do it regularly. You want to remind the others. I’ll write it on the chart. But you remember.”

“I will,” he said.

“She must have been a beautiful woman,” said the nurse, shaking her head.

“She
is
a beautiful woman,” said Michael, but there was no anger in it, no resentment. Just setting the record straight.

H
E WANTED TO
do it again. Emaleth didn’t want to stop dancing. The building was empty; no one else came this evening. And she wasn’t dancing, except in her sleep. She opened her eyes. There he was. The music was playing, she’d been hearing it in her dreams, and now he was so insistent. Do it. He wanted to take off her long pants again and be inside her. She didn’t mind it, but she had to be going to New Orleans. She really did. Look, it was dark again, positively late-night dark. The stars would be hanging low over the field outside, over the swampland, over the smooth highway with its silver wires, and its dreamy white lights. Got to start walking.

“Come on, honey.”

“I told you, we can’t make a baby,” she said. “It just won’t work.”

“That’s just fine, darlin’. I don’t mind at all about not making a baby. Come on, now, you’re my sweet little thing. What if I turned off the music? And here, I got you some milk? Some fresh milk. Said you wanted some more milk, remember? Look, I got you ice cream too.”

“Hmmmm, that’s good,” she said. “Turn down the dial on the music.”

Only then could she move. The music was little and tiny and thumping on her brain, kind of like a fish splashing in a tiny pool, trying to get bigger. It was grating, but it didn’t engulf her.

She tore open the plastic top of the big bottle and began to drink and drink. Ah, good milk. Not Mother’s milk, but it was milk. Not fresh and warm. But it was good. If only there had been more milk in Mother. She was so hungry for Mother. So hungry to lie in Mother’s arms and drink. This feeling became worse instead of better When she thought of Mother she wanted to cry.

But she had taken every drop she could get from Mother,
and it had been enough. She had grown tall, and only left Mother when she knew she had to.

Pray the brown people had found Mother and taken Mother to a proper grave. Pray they had sung and dropped the red ocher and the flowers. Mother would never wake again. Mother would never speak. There wouldn’t be any more milk ever in Mother. Mother had made every drop that she would ever make.

Was Mother dead? She ought to go to Michael, tell Michael what Mother said. A feeling of love and tenderness came over her when she thought of Michael, and Mother’s love for him. Then go on to Donnelaith. What if Father was waiting there for her now?

On and on she drank. He was laughing. He had turned up the music again. Boom, boom, boom. She let the bottle drop, and wiped her lips. She should be walking. “Got to leave you.”

“Not yet, darlin’.” He sat down beside her, took the milk bottle and laid it carefully out of the way. “Want some ice cream? People who like milk always like ice cream.”

“I never had any before,” she said.

“Honey, you’ll love ice cream.” He opened the package. He began to feed her with a small white spoon. Oh, this tasted even more like Mother’s breast, sweeter and delicious. It made a shiver pass through her. She took the carton and began to eat. She was humming with the music. Suddenly the music and the taste were all she knew. She tried to shake herself back into the moment. The little building in the woods; he and she alone on the floor. All the dancers gone. His wanting to do it with her. And the spot of blood after, when she had reached down. “It just died like that.”

“What was that, darlin’?”

“The baby. I can’t make them with men, only with Father.”

“Ho, ho, honey! Keep that secret to yourself.”

She didn’t know what he meant. But he was happy. He was gentle. He thought she was beautiful. He didn’t have to say so. She saw it in his eyes. Music or no music, she saw his adoring eyes. And he loved the smell of her. It made him feel young.

He was pulling her up to her feet. The ice cream rolled on the floor. It felt good to be in his arms, swaying back and forth and back and forth. Like a bell swinging, calling all the people down into the glen. Hear the bell, that’s the Devil’s Knell? Hear the bell?

He held her close, and she felt her breasts ache against his chest. Strange, prickly feeling.

“Oh, you’ve made milk in me,” she whispered. She backed up, trying to clear her head of the music. “Look at it.” She reached in her shirt, tearing loose the buttons, and pinched her own nipple.

Droplets of thin milk. It would not do her any good to drink her own milk. She ached for Mother, ached to nurse. And look, because he’d made the tiny baby die in her, he’d made her have milk. Well, it would go away, especially if he would stop doing it to her. But what if it didn’t? It was all right. When she came together with Father at the Beginning, she would need milk, breasts heavy with milk. Out of her loins would come all the children, hungry, beautiful children, until the glen was filled once again, as it had been, after they were driven from the island.

She turned around and went down on her knees and lifted the milk bottle. The music almost knocked her over. Almost made her not know up from down.

She drank and drank until there was no more.

“Gee, honey, you sure do like your milk.”

“Oh yes, very much,” she said. Then she could not remember what he had just said. The music. Turn down the music.

He was pushing her down on the floor. “Let’s do it again, honey.”

“OK,” she said, “but I will just bleed some more.” Her breasts hurt just a little. But it was probably all right. “Can’t make a baby, remember.”

“Promise me that, sweetheart, why you’re the most precious little gal, the most precious little thing I’ve ever…ever…known.”

T
HE MEETING IN
the dining room began at one o’clock. The nurses had promised to call Michael if there was the slightest change.

The dining room required no artificial light at this time of day. A flood of sun came through the south-facing windows, and even the north window on the street. The murals of Riverbend showed infinitely more detail than ever they did by the light of the chandelier. A sterling-silver coffee urn gleamed on the buffet. Extra chairs, of which there were many, were pushed back to the white-painted rail.

As the family sat around the oval table, in somewhat uneasy silence, the doctor spoke first.

“Rowan is stable. She is taking the liquid diet well. Her blood work is better. Her fluid output is good. Her heart is strong. We cannot expect recovery. But it is Michael’s wish that we conduct this case as if Rowan were indeed going to recover; that we do everything to stimulate Rowan and to make her as comfortable as we can. This means music in the room, or perhaps films, or television, or radio, and certainly conversation on sensible subjects in a calm way. Rowan’s limbs will be exercised daily; her hair will be groomed and maintained in a fashionable style. Her nails will be manicured. She will be cared for as lovingly as if she were conscious. She has the means for the best, and the best she shall have.”

“But she
could
wake up,” said Michael. “It could happen—!”

“Yes,” said the doctor. “It’s always possible. But it’s not probable at all.”

Nevertheless, everyone was in agreement. Everything must be done. Indeed, Cecilia and Lily expressed their relief at these ideas, as they themselves had felt rather hopeless after their long night sitting by the bed. Beatrice said Rowan could undoubtedly feel this love and this care. Michael mentioned that
he didn’t know what kind of music Rowan really liked. Did any of them know?

The doctor had more to say.

“We will continue intravenous feeding for as long as the body can successfully metabolize the food. Now there may come a time when the body cannot do this; when we have problems with the liver and kidneys; but that is down the road a bit. For now Rowan is receiving a balanced diet. This morning the nurse swore Rowan sucked a tiny bit of fluid from a straw. We will continue to offer this. But unless there is some real ability to take nourishment in this way—which I doubt—we will continue to feed through the vein.”

Everyone nodded.

“It was only a drop or two,” said Lily. “Just like a baby’s reflex, sucking up the fluid.”

“This can be rewarded and strengthened!” said Mona. “Christ, maybe she likes the taste of the food!”

“Yes, surely that would make a difference to her,” said Pierce. “We can try periodically to…”

The doctor nodded placatingly and gestured for attention:

“At any time,” he said, “that Rowan’s heart does stop, she will not be resuscitated by artificial means. No one will give her any injections, or pump oxygen into her. There is no respirator here. She will be allowed to die as God wills. Now, because you ask me, I must tell you. This could go on indefinitely. It could stop at any time. Patients like this have been known to survive for years. A few have come back, true. Others die within days. All we can say now is that Rowan’s body is restoring itself—from her injuries, from the malnutrition she suffered. But the brain…the brain cannot be restored in the same way.”

“But she could live into another era,” said Pierce eagerly, “into a time of some momentous new discovery.”

“Absolutely,” said the doctor. “And every conceivable medical possibility will be explored. Neurological consultations will begin tomorrow. It is easily within our means to bring every neurologist of note to this house to see Rowan. We will do it. We will meet periodically to discuss treatments. We will always be open to the possibility of a surgical procedure or some other experiment which could restore Rowan’s mentation. But let me remind you, my friends, this is not very likely. There are patients throughout the world in this condition. The electro-encephalogram
confirms that there is almost no brain activity in Rowan at all.”

“Can’t they transplant a piece of somebody’s brain into her?” asked Gerald.

“I volunteer,” said Mona dryly. “Take as many cells as you want. I’ve always had more than everybody else here.”

“You don’t have to get nasty, Mona,” said Gerald, “I was just asking a simple—”

“I’m not getting nasty,” said Mona, “what I’m suggesting is that we need to read up on this and not make inane statements. Brain transplants aren’t done. Not the kind she needs, anyway. Rowan is a vegetable! Don’t you get it?”

“That’s unfortunately the truth,” said the doctor softly. “ ‘Persistent vegetative state’ is only a little kinder, perhaps. But that is the case. We can and should pray for miracles. And a time will come when perhaps the collective decision will be made to withhold fluids and lipids. But at this juncture such a decision would be murder. It cannot be done.”

With a few handshakes and thank-yous, the doctor now made his way to the front door.

Ryan took the chair at the head of the table. He was a little more rested than yesterday, and seemed eager to make his report.

There was still no news whatsoever of Rowan’s kidnapper or captor. There had been no further assaults on Mayfair women. The decision had been made to notify the authorities about “the man” in a limited way.

“We have made a sketch, which Michael has approved. We have added the hair and the mustache and beard described by witnesses. We are requesting an interstate search. But no one, and I mean no one, in this room is to speak of this matter outside the family. No one is to give any more information than is necessary to the agencies who will cooperate with us.”

“You’ll only hurt the investigation,” said Randall, “if you go talking devils and spirits.”

“We are dealing with a man,” said Ryan. “A man who walks and talks and wears clothes like other men. We have considerable circumstantial evidence to indicate he kidnapped and imprisoned Rowan. There is no need to bring in any chemical evidence right now.”

“In other words keep the blood samples under wraps,” said Mona.

“Exactly,” Ryan said. “When this man is caught, then we
can come forward with more details of the story. And the man himself will be living proof of what is alleged. Now Aaron has some things to say.”

Michael could see this was no pleasure for Aaron. He had been sitting silent throughout the meeting, beside Beatrice, who kept her fingers wrapped protectively about his arm. He was dressed somberly in dark blue, more like the rest of the family, as though he had put his old tweed style away. He looked not like an Englishman now but a southerner, Michael thought. Aaron shook his head as if to express some silent appreciation of what lay before them all. Then he spoke.