The Test (18 page)

“You needn't worry,” Meredith said. “Ashley, I tried to consult with you, but Conrad said to do whatever Frank and I thought best.”

How could Ashley have left this judgment up to Conrad? Rory thought. “Ashley and I want to write a brief eulogy,” Rory announced.

Two gasps followed. “Rory, I can't.” Ashley's face twisted and she paled. Rory knew how much she feared public speaking.

“
I
would do it, but I can't.” Rory gestured toward her head, draped in an ivory-colored scarf.

“That's a nice idea,” Meredith blurted, “but Frank will take care of the eulogy.”

“I'm sure he will do a fine job.” Rory didn't add,
In support of his political future
. “But I want something more personal. Our tribute to our sister.”

“Frank may not think—I mean, the funeral is tomorrow.”

“Frank will do as you ask.” It was no secret to Rory that Meredith was both the brains and the power behind the successful Frank Parnell story. “Now, let's go over the music.”

Cardinal Sean had chosen a Gregorian chant motif for the parts of the Burial Mass. Carla thought Latin was exotic, and she'd be pleased with the full choir along with a soprano and a tenor soloist. Meredith recited the hymns.

“Take out ‘Amazing Grace.'” Rory mustered as much vehemence as she could. “Carla hated that song. Have Monica sing “Ave Maria,” as she did at Dad's funeral. Carla had commented how beautiful it sounded in the cathedral.”

“Sure,” Meredith said. “Okay.”

“‘Gentle Shepherd, Psalm twenty-three' is okay,” Rory went on. But, ‘Like a Child Rests'? I've never heard of, and I'll bet Carla hadn't either. Get rid of it and add ‘Panis Angelicus'—in Latin.” Rory spelled out the Latin hymn. “Ashley, any ideas?”

She shook her head.

Then Rory asked about pallbearers and Meredith ticked them off. Only two were acceptable to Rory. Carl Schiller and Matt Cleveland. The others were political cronies of Frank's. Rory figured that since she didn't know them, neither would have Carla.

“We need men who really cared for Carla when she was alive.”

Ashley said, “Peter Mendoza and Sara Waring's husband. They were devoted to Carla.”

“Ah, that's a nice thought,” said Meredith, “but since Frank has already asked the others—”

“That leaves two more,” Rory interrupted. “Patrick Nelson—she was looking forward to meeting him. And what about Bunky? Wouldn't Carla want him to—”

“Uh . . . Frank had a call from the New York Police. He's dead.”

“What?” Ashley gasped.

“You're kidding?” For a moment Rory thought Meredith made this up as an excuse to avoid an undesirable pallbearer.

“They found his body in an alley, outside a crack house by the East River. You can imagine the public relations nightmare if this gets out.”

While Ashley gasped, Rory said, “Then substitute Leo Tally from Longboat Key. Carla didn't know him, but she would have liked him. He was so wonderful to me.”

Rory fell back, exhausted. It had been a long time, if ever, since she'd made any request of Frank. Meredith was stubborn and strong willed, but Rory felt she'd agree. Out of respect or pity, she didn't know which. “So will you get Frank to go along with these changes?”

“Yes,” Meredith finally said. “And thank you, Rory. You're right, of course. I'll talk to Frank and the cardinal now. And that priest who oversees every detail of the cardinal's ceremonies,” Meredith chuckled. “This Latin liturgical stuff is out of my league.” The compassion in Meredith's voice was unmistakable, and Rory vowed to defend Meredith the next time anyone called her a bitch. “And Ashley, you'll do just fine.”

After the call, Rory said, “I want to show you the poem I wrote. All you have to do is read it.”

Ashley seemed nervous, checking her watch frequently.

“Rory, there's something else. Let me come right out and say it: a bone marrow transplant. Our compatibility match turned out good, not perfect since we have different fathers, but good enough.”

“Well if this round of chemo works okay, I won't need it. Right?”

“Well, maybe, right,” Ashley replied with that grave expression Rory knew so well. “But your cytogenic tests came back. The results were—were not favorable.”

“Meaning?” Ashley's a doctor. Rory needed to hear her point of view. Suddenly, Carla and the eulogy were forgotten.

“Meaning that treatment will be difficult.”

“Tell me, Ashley. Chan tried to explain, but I'm not sure I understand what it means, ‘not favorable.'”

“Acute myelogenous leukemia is classified into subtypes. It has to do with your chromosomes. It's called cytogenic analysis and it's used to—”

“Go on,” Rory said, steeling herself with a few gulps of air.

“Has to do with prognosis. There are favorable profiles and unfavorable.”

“And mine is unfavorable. I still don't know what that means, but I know it isn't good.”

“It's likely you will need a bone marrow transplant, and I'm the best bet for an HLA tissue match, meaning there's a better chance for compatibility. Even if Conrad—”

“What about Conrad? Is he making your decisions?”

“No.” Ashley looked away. “You know what, Rory? I've never been in love. I never knew what it felt like. I feel afraid when I'm not with him.”

“Afraid?” Rory asked.

“I don't know.” Ashley spoke so softly that Rory had trouble hearing. “Once we get married—”

Rory didn't know what to say. She felt that this relationship was all wrong, but how to get that across to Ashley who seemed mesmerized by the hypnotist?

“He wants me to drop out of my residency next year and—”

“What?” Rory struggled to pull herself up straighter in bed. “You've worked so hard. Being a doctor has always been your dream.”

“I know. But he thinks—”

“Too many things are happening, too fast.” It seemed crazy to be having this conversation in the middle of Carla's funeral—her not favorable leukemia prognosis, Bunky's death, Ashley's love.

“I'm just so scared of losing him.” Ashley had that faraway look. “I need him. Without Dad. With Carla dead.”

“Don't drop out of your residency,” Rory managed. She sank back onto the pillow, feeling her eyes almost rolling into the back of her head. “Give it some time.”

“Aunt Ashley,” Karen's shrill voice interrupted from downstairs. “Your car is here.”

Ashley jumped up and kissed Rory's cheek. “I have to go,” she said.

“But, the poem,” Rory protested.

Ashley held out her hand and Rory tore a handwritten sheet from a notebook. “I'll do my best, I really will. But I have to go.”

Something is wrong, Rory thought.

Please God, I failed Carla, don't let me fail Ashley, too.

Ashley huddled against her fiancé in the backseat of the limo as it made its way down the Schuylkill Expressway to the Vine Street exit. In her hand she clutched the poem that Rory had composed. A beautiful poem, touching in its simplicity. Three sisters, one now with the angels.

“Lean on me, my love,” Welton said as the black stretch pulled up to the curb of the Cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul. Its Palladian façade and copper dome was hosting the second Parnell funeral in 2001. For a fraction of a second, Ashley was a little girl and it was her dad, not Conrad, helping her out of the car. The memory dialed back to second grade.

It was 1980, the year a middle eastern terrorist group planned to release a deadly virus that would infect thousands. Military intelligence had evidence that the terrorist cell had infiltrated the United States Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Diseases laboratory in Fort Detrick, Maryland, and stolen classified biotechnology. Enabling technology that would allow the terrorists to infect a common adenovirus with fragments of DNA, resulting in a mutant that would cause a fatal hemorrhagic fever. Something like the Ebola virus.

Paul Parnell's pharmaceutical company, Keystone Pharma, had the technology to create an antidote for this fatal infection—at least in theory. The technology, a kind of genetic engineering, had never been developed. But Keystone held the patent and the virology know-how.

The chief of staff of the Armed Forces came to visit Paul at the Devon house one evening. No one knew who he was, the visit was so secretive, but years later Paul told Ashley. Immediately after the clandestine visit, Paul summarily assigned key scientists to develop the antidote without telling them why they were being taken off their other high-priority projects. His scientists worked hand in hand with the
USAMRIID scientists to make the vaccine and get it approved through the FDA. Since the project took six months of total dedication, word leaked out to the financial world that Keystone Pharma's blockbuster projects were seriously delayed. The timing of the annual shareholders meeting couldn't have been worse. Angry stockholders rushed to the microphones to lodge complaints about the incompetency of the chairman of Keystone. The board of directors knew that national security was involved, but nothing more. They were divided as to whether to fire him.

Four weeks later, terrorists infiltrated a U.S. military base in the Philippines. They'd transported the deadly virus via an abandoned tunnel and scaled the huge tank that provided water for the troops. More than one hundred military personnel fell ill, and twenty-nine died before the mutated virus was discovered. Within hours the FDA, in emergency session, approved the Keystone vaccine for immediate shipment. The entire base was vaccinated, including individuals who already had symptoms. There were no further deaths.

Paul Parnell became a national hero, awarded the Presidential Medal of Honor and later the Nobel Prize. Instantly, Keystone Pharma became
the
premier global pharmaceutical company. The stockholders now adored him. That had been a long time ago when Ashley was seven, Carla only five.

“You look beautiful in black, my love.” Welton tucked her arm in his and she returned to the here and now.

“It's the only black dress I have, but it's too short and I don't like that it's sleeveless.” She pulled a lacy black shawl tighter around her shoulders. Carla would have laughed at her modesty, Ashley realized, not bothering to dab the fresh tears trickling down her cheeks.

As she and Conrad entered the imposing cathedral, Welton pointed out Frank and Meredith across the vestibule. “Stay right by my side,” he murmured.

Naturally, Meredith looked elegant in a black dress and a black lace veil draping down from her hat.
Why hadn't she thought to wear a veil?
Ashley thought as Frank turned from his entourage to greet them.

“I've got to hand it to you,” Welton said immediately as he and Frank
shook hands. “Your finesse worked. ‘These tragedies can happen in young women on extremely low-calorie diets. Electrolyte imbalance, erratic heart rhythm.' Pure bullshit, but politically acceptable.” Conrad didn't look angry or embarrassed to be talking to Frank like that. But Ashley cringed. She knew that Conrad didn't like Frank, but he'd never been rude to him.

“Carla did have old heart tissue damage.” Ashley felt she should come to Frank's defense. “Anorexia in models is not uncommon.”

“And HIV positive. Now that was quite a shock.”

Yes
, Ashley thought, but should it have been? HIV is part of that lifestyle.

Frank glared at Welton, who raised his hands. “My lips are sealed,” he stage-whispered. “Now if you will excuse us, Ashley has to concentrate on her poem.”

Two strong men. The term alpha male lingered in Ashley's head as Frank went back to join his cronies.

“I think Carla planned to tell me about the HIV, but now I'll never know.” Ashley fingered the paper she held tightly in one hand, willing herself not to stutter when she was at the lectern. Carla would be so embarrassed. When they were kids, Carla used to tease Ashley about her speech impediment. But she stopped when they'd grown older, and Ashley had never held a grudge.

Ashley and her fiancé made their way slowly through endless bouquets of flowers toward the casket. Flowers of all types, but mostly white—maybe lilies, maybe orchids, Ashley wasn't sure, but she did thank God that someone, probably Rory, had remembered that Carla was crazy for flowers.

Ashley had seen many dead bodies, but nothing could have prepared her for the sight of her little sister, looking so peaceful and innocent, lying in the satin-lined box as if she'd decided to crawl in for a nap. Meredith had chosen well, an ivory silk suit. No blouse, but a single strand of ivory-colored pearls that had belonged to their mother. Carla's hair was styled the way she'd worn it as a teenager, parted on one side with a casual sweep across her forehead. But her beautiful violet eyes were closed forever.

Ashley felt her knees buckle as she reached the kneeling bench. She fell to the bench, silently repeating the Hail Mary over and over. Finally, Conrad on her right and Cardinal Sean, who'd appeared on her left, helped her down the aisle to the front of the cathedral. When they each held out a monogrammed handkerchief, she took them both.

“Ashley, I'm so sorry,” her uncle whispered. He kept speaking in a low tone, but she had zoned out.

“She'll be okay,” Welton said, pulling her close. “I'm sure you must get back for the service.”

With a flush of shame, Ashley realized that she needed to pull herself together. She had to help the family get through this horrible day.

“Cardinal Sean, I'm sorry.” She choked back tears. “I just wish that I'd been there for her.”

“We all wish that we had,” he said, sounding so human.

Then she realized that her uncle had never even met Conrad. She hadn't told him about their engagement. Did he know that they were living together? Naturally, he wouldn't approve.