Radiance (32 page)

Stepping from the cab at Mount Sinai, an updraft of warm air caught Walter’s hat. They watched it swirl upwards, then come down not five feet from where they stood. Walter scooped it up and smiled at Daisy for the first time that morning: surely this must be a good omen.

Tom Orley stood in front of the hospital, smoking, agitated, his cheeks ashen. He flicked his cigarette into the gutter when he saw them.

“Is she all right? What’s happened?”

Daisy heard his voice but didn’t stop to answer.

D
AISY WAS AWARE
that no two human faces could be identical, but when she and Walt came out on the seventh floor and saw the nurse filling out forms at her station, she could have sworn that the woman was her Aunt Nancy from Seneca Falls, an old battle-axe who used to pinch Daisy’s cheeks, comment
on her plumpness and who once told Daisy’s mother that her daughter’s looks were common. Now Aunt Nancy’s dead ringer looked Daisy and Walter up and down. She had broken capillaries in her cheeks; her nostrils were alarmingly hairy. Even before a word came out of Daisy’s mouth, this woman began to shake her head.

“Today there’s followup surgery. She’s not allowed visitors.”

“But we need to see her.”

“Nobody is permitted.”

“I’m permitted.”

“And who are you?”

“I’m her homestay mother.”

“We’re members of the committee that runs this project.” Walter kept his voice amiable.

“I’ve been told that nobody is to be admitted.”

“Then you’ve been told wrong,” Daisy said. “If you give me the room number—”

“I certainly can’t do that—not unless Dr. Carney himself says so.”

“Then call him, please.”

The nurse glanced down at the telephone as though Daisy had suggested something vile. Daisy gave Walter a beseeching look, and he took off his hat, swept it to his breast. “Miss.” His voice was low and courtly. “I guess you might say we’re like family members. The kind of people somebody might want to see before a major event of this nature.”

“Well—” A flicker of a smile, then she opened a folder on her desk. “What did you say your name was?”

Daisy repeated it, and the nurse leafed through the file, before snapping it closed with a smirk. “You’ve been prohibited access,” she said.

Walter shook his head.

“You’ve made a mistake,” Daisy whispered. “Get Dr. Carney on the telephone. He’ll tell you we can see her.” She must have looked quite wild because the nurse dialed zero and asked to be put through, then pressed the receiver to her small, pointed earlobe. Down the hall beyond the steel door, Daisy heard the faint sound of ringing. After five rings, it stopped.

“Dr. Carney, there’s a couple here to see Miss Kitigawa. A”—again she consulted the file–“Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence.” She paused. She nodded. She nodded again. “Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir. Yes, of course. But I thought—Yes, I—of course, sir.” She hung up, sniffed, then looked at the two of them with pursed lips. “Dr. Carney has informed me that he wishes to see you in his office. Follow me, please.”

“Ma’am,” Walter said, lifting his hat, “you’ve been most helpful.” He gave her a small bow, and she narrowed her eyes, then smiled despite herself. Walter took Daisy’s arm and they followed the nurse past her station, down the hallway and through the steel door.

Dr. Carney’s desk was strewn with papers and tissues, a pair of reading glasses, several cups of cold coffee and a plate holding some half-eaten sandwich crusts. Several withered aspidistra plants sat on his radiator. Carney himself looked dishevelled. He leapt up when he saw them, led Daisy to a chair, then pulled up another one for Walter.

“Forgive the clutter. A room says so much about a personality, and I’m sure mine says I have a series of disgusting fixations.” He made a show of tidying up some papers on his desk, then gathered up the plate and cups, put them on the counter beside the small sink. “What I need is for the good nurses to see my mess for what it is—a repressed infantile obsession. Then perhaps they would take pity on me and tidy up more than once
every twenty-four hours. But they won’t. When I tell them I’m hopelessly dependent, they just smile, pat me on my head.”

Walter laughed.

“You understand? I’m glad. As for the nurses—they don’t give a hoot about psychological urges and needs. As far as they are concerned, we are all the horrible creatures we were born to be. A refreshing outlook.”

Daisy straightened her back, clenched her purse strap. Her palms felt sweaty. “Dr. Carney,” she said, “we need to talk about Keiko.”

“Yes, beautiful Keiko. The scar is quite gone.”

“But the keloid.”

“That’s unfortunate. Still, we’ll have her fixed in no time. I’m going to operate”—he checked his watch—“in twenty minutes. The nurses are prepping her now.”

“I need to see her.”

“I want you to make yourselves comfortable. We only have to wait for Dean. Yes, Dean Atchity is coming up to see you too. He was in the conference room. I buzzed him the moment I heard you had arrived. Mrs. Lawrence, your cheeks are quite rosy. Let’s take off that little jacket, shall we, and make sure you’re comfortable.” As he came close, she could smell the Brylcreem in his hair. She handed him her jacket, and he hung it with ostentatious precision from the back of his chair.

Then he started to pace: “Mrs. Lawrence, Mr. Lawrence, the mind is powerful. You think so too, I am sure?”

“I don’t know.” Daisy had rushed here determined to stop the madness of the Project, to throw herself between it and Keiko. Instead she felt as though she had plunged though a rabbit hole, and Dr. Carney, a joker affixed to his front, was the first person she’d met.

“You are a typical American husband and wife, am I correct?
That’s why you were chosen to host Keiko. And yet, beneath the surface, there are depths, are there not? What do you think, Mr. Lawrence?” He turned to Walter, who was rolling a cigarette.

Walter shrugged. “Usually are.”

“Usually are.” This made Carney chuckle. “A man of few words. I like that. Usually are.” There was a flutter of nails on the door. Daisy recognized that signature knock; it showcased a manicure without causing damage. Irene entered, a black silk jacket slung about her shoulders, raglan sleeves flopping like minor characters in themselves. Her face was excessively powdered, her hair bound tight, pinned beneath a black cap decked with two crow’s feathers. She looked like a figure from kabuki theatre.

“Nobody stand,” she said by way of greeting. “Just find me a chair, Raymond, and I’ll flop. Can someone explain why I bought these shoes?”

Irene sat down, nodding to Walter.

Daisy straightened. “Irene,” she said. “Dr. Carney. We exchanged words. I was, perhaps, rash. I regret it now. I regret it.”

Irene tilted her head like a bird and smiled.

“All I care about—all we care about—is Keiko’s welfare. I’m worried, knowing her as I do. I can’t see how she can bear this latest setback.”

“She’ll be all right,” Irene said.

“She ought to come home, regain her strength. Rest.”

“She’s beautiful, you know,” Dr. Carney said.

“Beautiful,” Irene echoed.

“One more operation—that’s all it takes—Mrs. Lawrence, and she can do what she came here for.”

Daisy glanced at Walter for support, but he was looking at the laces of his shoes, as though her intensity were distressing him. Well, never mind. “That’s why we came,” Daisy said. “We believe
it will be psychologically disastrous to make her speak, especially in light of this new surgery. We have—we have terrible fears—”

“Fears.” Dr. Carney smiled as though at a joke only he could get. Daisy glanced at Walter, full of apprehension, but he was lighting his cigarette now, face turned away.

“She’s sensitive,” Daisy said. “Just a child.”

Dr. Carney went to the window and adjusted the blinds. He seemed on the verge of shaking all over, like a dog after a swim. “A child.”

“Yes, that’s what I said.”

“Raymond,” Irene said suddenly, “I hate it when you’re like this.”

“Like what?”

“Leaping around the room, taking
pleasure
in your devices.”

At which point there was another knock on the door, and Dean Atchity entered.

He said hello, then perched on a corner of the desk and looked down at the floor, then at Walter and Daisy in turn. He cleared his throat. When he spoke, it was to the others.

“If you don’t mind terribly, Dr. Carney, Miss Day, I’d like to be alone with Mrs. Lawrence.”

They got up, and then, to Daisy’s surprise, Walter stood up too. Daisy reached for his hand, but Dean Atchity intervened. “I think it’s better, perhaps, if your husband waits outside. There are a few things I’d like to say to you privately.”

All three departed quickly, like children dismissed from a difficult class.

When they were alone, Atchity sat down heavily behind the desk.

“Mrs. Lawrence,” he began. “It pains me to say what I am about to say. I believe you are a good woman, and that you have been an asset to this project.” He was trying, Daisy could see, even through the scrim of her apprehension, to word things kindly.

“It is tempting,” he said, “to love those who have suffered. To love them with every ounce of love we have, whether this love is misplaced or not. I am sure,” he added, “that in years to come, Keiko will feel enriched by your kindness.” He spoke so calmly, so caressingly, that Daisy was temporarily disarmed.

“But in the end, we need to do what is best for Keiko.”

“I’ve been trying to do what’s best.”

“Ah, well, there you are.”

“And I’m concerned by the plans that have been made: the national tour, the television interviews. I know this girl, Mr. Atchity. I can’t tell you strongly enough what a terrible mistake these things are.”

Even as she spoke, Atchity shook his head. “I don’t want to make things harder than they already are. But let me say this clearly. I am afraid we can no longer have you or your husband in the Project.”

Daisy felt his words as a blow to her stomach. Still, she kept her voice calm. “This is Irene’s doing.”

He shrugged. “Irene has alerted me to a certain situation, yes.”

“Tell me what she said.”

“She mentioned that your husband has, in his past, had some unfortunate associations. It is unclear whether those associations have continued.”

Daisy stared at him, not understanding the words.

“We felt it best not to alert the authorities. It would only compromise the Hiroshima Project. But we have taken steps to separate you from the Project. It is the only wise course to take, Mrs. Lawrence. I’m sorry.”

“But you know he isn’t a Red. It’s
Walter.
He hates everything to do with Communism.”

Dean looked embarrassed, as though her protestations only caused some kind of shame, a smell of bathroom odours. “I’m
not sure that’s entirely true, Mrs. Lawrence.” His eyes, in that gaunt, well-scrubbed face, bored into her. “Yes,” he said gently. “We asked the girl and she told us. He still speaks warmly of his experiences.”

“Oh God.”

“Her words corroborated Miss Day’s own fears.”

“And you’ve removed Keiko because of this?”

“Keiko has decided herself that she would prefer to live elsewhere. She has asked to be transferred to another family, but we think it best that she stay with Miss Day. You must honour her wishes. Mrs. Lawrence, you and your husband must never contact her. Your proximity jeopardizes this project. If you do see her, I will have no recourse but to inform the FBI of your husband’s past connections.”

“But everyone used to have connections. I know you did. And Irene did. And Keiko—I mean, she didn’t have connections, but I can’t believe she would say such a thing.”

“She has asked to be removed permanently.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“You will need to believe it, because it is true and she has told me.”

“What did she say?”

“Mrs. Lawrence.”

“Go on. Tell me.”

He paused, looking—looking what?—looking as though he wished to spare her. At last he spoke: “I’m afraid that in the end, her wish to be removed had less to do with your husband than with you. She said that in your house she is frightened.”

“She
is
frightened,” Daisy said, standing now. “She’s frightened of the committee and all of your horrible plans for her, and of the operations, which hurt horribly, and aren’t successful—”

“No, Daisy.”

Somewhere high above them an airplane was passing over Manhattan. Daisy could hear it. She thought of the girl’s soft hair, which she had touched.

“She says that you watch her as she sleeps—is that true?”

Daisy thought of her cries in the night, and how she had comforted her.

“She says that your house is full of ghosts.”

Daisy breathed out.

“I cannot tell you how this pains me.” Atchity took a deep breath and reached across the desk for Daisy’s hand, but she pulled it away. “Dr. Carney calls it transference. It’s a form of dependency.”

“Don’t—”

“You’ve had a hard time of it. Irene tells me that you wanted to have children.” Daisy raised a hand to object, but no words came.

“In the end, we put too much responsibility on your shoulders. Do not blame yourself for anything.”

“Does she really not want to be with me?”

Again Atchity reached for her hand. She let him take it. “It’s what she has requested. She wants to start over when the bandages come off. And she feels, well, I think she feels that things have, perhaps, been slightly overwhelming in your home.”

Daisy shook her head. How could she explain? There was no explanation. She could not argue with Dean Atchity’s reasonableness. There was nothing to say. She felt riddled by darkness, by shame, by what he described as perfectly normal transference, by her unspeakable needs.

“I would like to see her,” Daisy said. “I’d like to speak with her one last time.”

“Please understand—she does not wish to see you. And with your husband’s connections, it’s no longer advisable.”

“But what did I
do?”
Daisy’s voice leapt out in lament. “You can’t trust what she’s saying. She must be so confused. Let me see her. I can’t believe she’s frightened of me!”