The Art of Forgetting (27 page)

              Roy smiled, his penetrating eyes glistening. “Like I said, you have no idea.” He cast a mischievous smile around the table and scooped more pasta in his mouth.

              Erin, Ellen and Lloyd exchanged glances.

              “You can’t just leave it like that,” Erin said. “Give us just a tiny juicy morsel.”

              Roy chewed slowly, swallowed and dabbed his lips with his napkin. His eyes tightened and he nodded. “Very well.” He took a sip of wine. “So you’re familiar with the premise of the Da Vinci code?  How the bloodline of Jesus was passed on and a pregnant Mary Magdalene escaped to southern France?” Lloyd looked on as Roy’s eyes burrowed into Erin’s. “Well, it’s simply not true. You see, Mary Magdalene actually landed in Ireland. Her descendants still run a pub down in Corky.” A wide grin appeared on his face. “I’ve been there. The fish and chips are divine!” Roy erupted in laughter and had to wipe a tear from his eye.

              “You’re getting nothing out of him,” Lloyd told Erin.

              “One thing Copelands are famous for is keeping secrets,” Roy said. “Lloyd’s father used to say –”

              He stopped in mid-sentence. Ellen had knocked over her water glass. Her hand hovered over the table, trembling.

              “What a mess I’ve made of things,” she muttered.

              “It’s just water,” Roy said, pulling the napkin off his lap, doubling it over and laying it on the stain that was slowly expanding on the tablecloth. Ellen remained visibly shaken. Erin took her hand.

              “That’s a beautiful ring,” Erin said. “Is that a sapphire?”

              “Why yes it is,” Ellen said, her face softening. “Lloyd’s father gave it to me. That was the happiest day of my life.” Ellen looked at Roy. “Did I ever tell you, Roy, that was the happiest day of my life?”

              “More than once, Ellen. More than once,” Roy said.

              “Well, today’s a close second,” she said facing Erin. “I can’t tell you how thrilled I am.”

              Erin squeezed her hand.

              “Oh, just look at my hand!” Ellen said. “My fingers are shriveling down to the bone. Of all the places to lose weight, it’s around the eyes and the fingers that upsets me the most. The ring is so loose now, I’m afraid I’m going to lose it.”

              “We could have it re-sized,” Roy said.

              Ellen shook her head and smiled wistfully. “It will fit someone else.” She slipped the ring off her finger. “Let’s see how it fits on you, Erin.”

              “Oh no, I couldn’t,” Erin said.

              “I’m not giving it to you, my dear. But it would give me so much joy to see it on a beautiful hand, to see it the way it once looked on my own finger, if just for a moment.”

              Erin extended her hand and Ellen slid the ring on her finger. When the ring settled in place, Ellen gasped.

              “Amazing,” Roy said. “It’s a perfect fit. It’s as if it were made for her.”

              “How does it feel?” Ellen asked.

              “It’s gorgeous. Simply breathtaking,” Erin whispered.

              “So glad you like it,” Ellen said in a gentle voice. “But it’s mine, so you better give it back to me this minute.” Ellen winked and smiled as Erin quickly pulled the ring off and handed it back to her.

              After dinner, Roy and Lloyd cleared the table while Ellen lay on the sofa to rest her swollen ankle with Erin sitting at her side. The entire scene felt surreal to Lloyd. It was a portrait of serene domesticity which was utterly foreign to him, which had never been a part of his life, which he had never envisioned for himself.

              “It’s all so strange isn’t it?” Lloyd said to Roy as he handed him a bowl to place in the dishwasher.

              Roy lifted the stainless steel door of the appliance, nudged it shut and pressed the power button on its frame. He straightened, turned to Lloyd and in a nearly theatrical voice said, “There are conditions of our existence which we cannot change. What we can do is adopt a noble spirit, such a spirit as befits a good man.”

              “Which episode of Star Wars is that from?” Lloyd asked.

              “It’s Seneca. You’d do well to read him sometime.”

              “I’ll never be cultured like you. Didn’t he also say something about knowing what you can change and what you can’t change, and having the wisdom to tell the difference?”

              “You’re paraphrasing Epictetus.”

              “See, it’s hopeless.”

              “She’s wonderful, Lloyd. Don’t be a fool. A lifetime is a very long time to spend mired in regret.”

              After coffee, dessert, and still more coffee, Lloyd suggested it was time to leave. Standing by the doorway, Ellen clasped Erin’s hands and said, “Now, don’t forget what I told you, sweet child.”

              Erin kissed her cheek and said, “I’ll see you again soon.”

              They were within steps of the car when Father Roy called out from the front porch. “Erin! I almost forgot. When you see your brother, tell him that I know who painted that mustache on baby Jesus in the nativity scene on the night of the Christmas pageant.”

              Erin blushed. “Y-yes sir.”

              “Tell him that I knew who it was all along, and that all is forgiven.” Roy winked and waved.

              Erin climbed in the car, shut the door and waved back from behind the closed window. Lloyd entered the car and started the engine.

              “Milk-Duds painted a mustache on baby Jesus?”

              “Just drive away,” Erin said through clenched teeth.

              When they were a block away Erin muttered, “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!”

              “What’s the matter?” Lloyd asked.

              “I’m the one who painted the mustache on baby Jesus.”

              “Oh boy, you’re going straight to hell.”

              “Gee, thanks.”

              “But don’t worry about my uncle. He thinks your brother did it.”

              “Honestly, Lloyd, sometimes I wonder how you ever made it into medical school. He knows I did it. Didn’t you hear him?”

              “Didn’t he just say, ‘Tell him I know he did it?’”

              “He said, ‘Tell your brother I know
who
did it. I’ve always known.’ Did you see how he winked at me?”

              “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Lloyd said. “Okay, so you are going straight to hell. And Uncle Roy won’t even intercede.”

              “I’ll never be able to face him again,” Erin said.

              “You’re making too big deal of it. He said, ‘All is forgiven.’”

              “I just know he hates me.”

              “Listen, Erin – and I’m not just saying this to make you feel better – Uncle Roy loves you.”

              “You think so?”

              “I know so. They both love you,” Lloyd looked over his left shoulder to merge onto the Tri-State Tollway. “My whole family loves you. Hell, I love you too.” He faced forward and focused his eyes on the rear fender of the car in front.

              “What did you just say, Lloyd Copeland?”

              “I’m just saying, everyone loves you.”

              “That’s not what I heard you say.”

              Lloyd kept his gaze fixed straight ahead.

              Erin leaned forward and turned her head to him. “Lloyd?”

              “What?” He laughed with a phony innocence. “Okay, I said I love you.”

              “That’s what I thought you said.” Erin smiled and leaned back in her seat. “Dammit Lloyd, I love you too.”

              Lloyd glanced at Erin and studied her profile. She was looking straight ahead at the road in front of them with a perplexed look on her face.

              “So now what happens?” Lloyd asked.

              Chapter 26

             
E
rin settled in her cubicle early Monday morning. She stashed her purse in the large bottom drawer of her desk and powered on her computer. The phone on her desk rang. She picked up the handset on the second ring.

              “Hello?”

              “Good morning Dr. Kennedy. It’s Mrs. Oliver. I’m calling to remind you of your nine o’clock meeting with Dr. Lasko this morning.”

              “Yeah, I haven’t forgotten.”

              She placed the handset back on its cradle, folded her hands in her lap and stared at the phone. She reached for it, picked up the handset, started to dial a number but hung up again after punching the first four digits.

              A quarter of an hour later she was sitting across from Lasko in his office. She placed a manila envelope on his desk. He opened it and perused its contents as Erin sat quietly with her legs folded to her side.

              “This is good work, Dr. Kennedy,” Lasko said. “You can never be too diligent when it comes to a Joint Commission survey, not in today’s health care climate.”

              Erin cleared her throat and nodded.

              “Is anything the matter?” Lasko asked. “You seem tense.”

              “I’m fine.”

              Lasko placed the documents on the side of his desk. “You miss Boston?” he asked.

              “No, not really.”

              “Good!” Lasko smiled. “You’re a bright woman and you have a bright future here if you’re able to maintain a sensible frame of mind.” Lasko clasped his hands together, resting his index fingers on his chin. “You owe it to yourself to make the right choices.”

              Erin shifted in her seat and pulled on the hem of her skirt.

              “So it’s nice to see that you’re settling in,” Lasko said, “falling into a routine, forging new friendships perhaps. Speaking of which, it’s been quite a while since we had a chat about our mutual friend. What can you tell me today about Dr. Copeland?”

              Chapter 27

             
T
hat morning, Lloyd started his one month stint on the inpatient consult service. He arrived at the hospital before eight, grabbed a coffee and bagel in the cafeteria (funny how he started eating bagels since meeting Erin) and headed to the surgical ward to see a forty-three year old man with epilepsy who managed to drive his car into a telephone pole, shattering his pelvis.

              As Lloyd was writing up his recommendations he was approached by a red-eyed surgical resident in wrinkled scrubs who asked him if he could see an elderly Greek woman who seemed to have suffered a stroke following gall bladder surgery.

              By nine-thirty, Lloyd was done with the most pressing part of his morning’s work. It was time to drop in on Dr. Ruby Carbajal but he imagined that on her first day back from vacation she’d have plenty of back-logged work waiting for her and might not be in much of a chatting mood. Still, he would only need a few minutes of her time. Most of all, he wanted to get the autopsy slides from her so that Kowalski could review them.

              Lloyd had never met Dr. Carbajal and really didn’t know what to expect. As he rode the elevator down to the Pathology suite he considered how he would approach her. There was the distinct risk of offending her if he questioned her too forcefully on her interpretation of the autopsy findings. Then she might not cooperate with releasing the slides. For once, he would try hard to be patient, even cordial. And above all, he’d keep his cool.

              He paused outside her office, perked his ears but heard no noise coming from the other side of the door. He rapped his knuckles on the door three times and straightened his shoulders. There was no answer. He knocked again. All was quiet.

              Lloyd checked his wristwatch. It was nearly ten o’clock. He ambled back to the reception area which was unmanned as usual. He could hear the sound of laughter coming from a back hallway.

              “Excuse me,” he said. Then louder, “Ex
cuse
me.”

              A secretary with an oversized blonde hair-do and fawn eyes hurried into the reception area, the length of her stride restricted by an all-too-tight skirt.

              “Can I help you?” she asked, batting her eyes.

              “I’m looking for Dr. Carbajal,” Lloyd said.

              There was a hint of relief in the secretary’s face. “Did you try her office?”

              “There’s no one there.”

              The secretary glanced at a clock on the wall. “She usually comes in right about this time. If you’d like to take a seat… Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

              “No, thanks,” Lloyd said. He smiled, turned and sat on a burgundy leatherette chair with wooden arm rests.

              “If you need something, just holler. I’ll be…” she winked and cocked her thumb over her shoulder, “… in the back.”

              Lloyd nodded. The secretary trotted back through the doorway into the back corridor. Lloyd heard a murmur followed by laughter.

              A minute later the elevator doors opened. A full figured woman who looked to be in her early forties stepped out. She was wearing a sleeveless, printed silk blouse with a matching scarf over a knee length pleated skirt. An over-sized Louis Vuitton purse dangled from her shoulder.

              When she caught sight of Lloyd her pace slowed and she fell into a deliberate stride that radiated the grace of a woman comfortable in her own skin. Lloyd rose to his feet and she smiled with self-satisfaction.

              “Dr. Carbajal?” Lloyd said.

              “Yes?” That single word revealed an unapologetic Spanish accent.

              “I’m Dr. Copeland from Neurology,” Lloyd said.

              She grabbed the hospital badge clipped to his lapel, pulled it towards her and inspected it thoroughly.

              “Oh yes. I’ve heard about you.”

              She was close enough that Lloyd could smell her perfume. It smelled expensive. When she released the badge he took a half step back.

              “I was wondering if I might have a minute with you.”

              “Just a minute?” She smiled and raised an eyebrow, her eyes beaming.

              “I promise, I won’t be long.” Lloyd let his eyes stray to her cleavage then righted them quickly and wondered if she had noticed.

              “Let’s step into my office.” She curled her index finger and gesticulated to follow her as she resumed her march. Lloyd followed a few steps behind looking at the swinging of her hips. He felt like Benjamin Braddock heading to the Taft hotel for his first rendezvous with Mrs. Robinson.

              Dr. Carbajal stopped in front of her office and fished a key chain from the bottom of her enormous purse, unlocked the door and waited for Lloyd to push it open. She side-stepped through the doorway grazing Lloyd’s arm with her bosom and walked to the front of a decidedly inelegant metal desk and deposited her purse on its surface with a rehearsed nonchalance. She turned, leaned on the edge of the desk and asked, “So, Dr. Copeland from Neurology, what can I do for you?”

              “I wanted to ask you about an autopsy,” Lloyd said.

              Carbajal’s eyes widened. “An autopsy?”

              “On one of my lab mice.”

              Carbajal tossed back her head and laughed open-mouthed. Lloyd furrowed his brow and looked away as she regained her composure.

              “Aren’t you a dear.” she said as she shook her head. “I don’t do autopsies anymore.” She held out her hands as though her manicured nails were all the evidence needed to support her statement. “And I especially don’t do autopsies on a Mickey Mouse, even if he has good insurance.” She laughed again.

              Lloyd pulled the copy of the autopsy report from his coat pocket, unfolded it and handed it to her without saying a word. Carbajal held it at arm’s length and read it, silently moving her lips.

              “This is signed by Todd English,” she said, handing the paper back to Lloyd.

              “He said you did the autopsy.”

              Carbajal rolled her eyes. “I don’t know how that boy doesn’t end up with both feet in the same pant-leg in the morning. Honestly, the way he grosses specimens, I think his mommy still cuts his meat for him.”

              “You’re sure?”

              Carbajal cocked her head to the side and crossed her arms.

              Lloyd asked, “Do you have the slides at least?”

              “Why would I have the slides?”

              “But you’re listed as the attending of record.”

              “What do I know? I just got back from vacation.” Her eyes dropped to his shoulders. “Do you like cruises?” Her full lower lip dipped slightly.

              She was really quite attractive. Lloyd wondered if she had gone sailing by herself, if there was a Mr. Carbajal in her state room or maybe another man. He swallowed hard and looked down. He folded the autopsy report and slipped it back in his lab coat pocket. He thought of Erin and a wave of guilt welled up in his chest. But as the feeling rose to the back of this throat it assumed a balmy, fragrant flavor: sweet guilt – its mere presence was an act of contrition. He embraced the feeling as if it were a new friend.

              “I don’t take vacations,” Lloyd said. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, doctor.”

              “Not a bother at all.”

              “Thanks again,” Lloyd uttered as he took a step back. Carbajal held out a hand, palm down in a gesture fit for royalty. Lloyd stepped forward, grasped it limply and shook it awkwardly. He turned for the door but Carbajal called his name. She reached for a business card and scribbled on it.

              “Take my card. It has my cell phone number,” she said. “In case there’s anything else you want to talk about.”

              Lloyd reached for the card, slipped it in his coat pocket without looking at it and left the office. He walked down the hallway, stopped at a trash bin, removed the business card from his pocket, tore it in pieces and deposited the fragments in the bin.

              He really needed to talk to Kowalski, but at this moment his strongest impulse was to put some distance between him and Carbajal. He hurried for the elevator as its doors opened. It was only after he had stepped onto the elevator and the aluminum doors started to shut that a question materialized in his mind.
If Carbajal didn’t perform the autopsy, who wrote the report?

              Chapter 28

             
L
loyd stepped off the elevator on the ground floor and made his way to one of the few spots in the medical center where he could sit quietly without being bothered: the narrow courtyard where employees were allowed to huddle when they couldn’t resist the urge to light up for a smoke. There was a lone man standing feet apart, a half-smoked cigarette propped in his mouth, his eyes squinting as he tucked his shirt tail inside his pants. Lloyd ignored him and stepped to the opposite side of the concrete patio and sat on a picnic bench.

              He pulled out his cell phone and called Stanley Kowalski. Kowalski answered almost immediately.

              “Carbajal didn’t have the slides,” Lloyd said. “She didn’t do the autopsy.”

              “I can’t say I’m surprised. Do you still have the number on that autopsy report?”

              “Give me a sec.” Lloyd pulled out the report and flattened it on the picnic table. “Ready?  A231556.”

              “Got it,” Kowalski said. “Wait. Read it again.” Lloyd repeated the number. “That’s it? There’s nothing else?” Kowalski asked.