Summer’s End

15

“Quoi? Oh, mon Dieu! Dominique, are you sure?”

“Absolutely. I also spoke to your mother. And the doctor.”

“What’s his name?” She passed the information on to Marc as he gestured frantically for a pen. Chantal handed him hers. “When did they operate?”

“This morning, Paris time. Three hours ago, I believe. She’s a little better, they think, but she hadn’t yet regained consciousness. They’re mainly worried about her skull, and… and her legs.”

The tears had started to pour slowly down Marc-Edouard’s cheeks as he listened to Dominique. “I’ll send a wire. I’ll be there tonight.” He flashed the concierge. His orders were terse. “This is Duras. Get me on a plane. Paris. Immediately.” He hung up and wiped his face, looking strangely at Chantal.

“It’s Pilar?” she asked. He nodded. “Is it very bad?” She sat down on the couch next to him and took his hands.

“They don’t know. They don’t know…” He couldn’t bring himself to say the words, or to tell her that the motorcycle had been a gift from him, as the sobs began to convulse him.

Deanna got off the plane at Charles de Gaulle Airport in a cloud of exhaustion, terror, and nausea. She had spent the night staring straight ahead and clenching her hands. She called the hospital from the airport, but there was no news. Deanna hailed a taxi just outside the airport and sat silently as they sped along. She had given the driver the address of the American Hospital and told him only, “Aussi vite que possible.”

In true Gallic style, he took her at her word. The trees at the roadside were barely more than a green blur in the corners of Deanna’s eyes as she stared straight ahead of her, watching the driver’s maneuvers as he lunged and careened past every obstacle in sight. She could feel every pulse in her body, every throb of her heart… hurry… hurry…VITE! It seemed hours before they reached the Boulevard Victor Hugo and screeched to a halt in front of the big double doors. Deanna reached quickly into her wallet for the francs she had exchanged from dollars at the airport. Without thinking she handed him a hundred francs, and flung open the door.

“Votre monnaie?” He looked at her questioningly, and she shook her head. She didn’t give a damn about the change. Her lips were a tight, narrow line lost somewhere in the ivory agony of her face. He had understood from the first, when she had given him the address of the American Hospital. He had known. “Your husband?”

“Non. Ma fille.” Once again her eyes filled with tears.

The driver nodded in sympathetic chagrin. “Désolée.” He picked her small brown-leather valise off the seat and opened his door. He stood there for a moment, holding it, looking at her, wanting to say something more. He had a daughter too, and he could see the pain in Deanna’s eyes. His wife had looked like that once, when they had almost lost their son. He silently handed the bag to Deanna. Her eyes held his for only a fraction of a second, then she turned and strode rapidly into the hospital.

There was a sour-looking matron sitting at a desk.

“Oui, madame?”

“Pilar Duras. Her room number?” Oh, God, just her room number, please. Don’t let them tell me… don’t…

“Four-twenty-five.” Deanna wanted to let out a long anguished sigh. Instead, she only nodded curtly and followed the sign. There were two men and a woman on the elevator, going to other floors. They had the look of businesslike Europeans, maybe they were friends of patients, maybe husbands or wives, but none of them looked particularly shaken or upset. Deanna watched them enviously as she waited for her floor. The long, fear-filled plane ride was taking its toll. It had been a long sleepless night, and her thoughts had ricocheted from Pilar to Ben. What if she had let him come with her? She found herself longing for his arms, his warmth, his comfort, his support, and the gentleness of his words.

The elevator doors opened on four, and hesitantly she stepped out. There was a bustle of nurses, and in a few sedate little cliques she noticed elderly distinguished men; doctors. But suddenly, Deanna felt lost. She was six thousand miles from home, looking for a daughter who could even be dead. Suddenly, she wasn’t even sure if she could speak French anymore, or if she would ever find Pilar in that maze. Tears stung her eyes. She fought off a wave of dizziness and nausea, then slowly made her way to the desk.

“I’m looking for Pilar Duras. I’m her mother.” She didn’t even try it in French. She just couldn’t. She only prayed that someone would understand. Most of the nurses were French, but someone would speak English. Someone would know… someone would make it all better-would take her to Pilar, would show her that she wasn’t really that badly hurt…

“Duras?” The nurse seemed troubled as she looked up at Deanna, and then frowned at a chart. Everything inside Deanna turned first to jelly, then to stone. “Oh, yes.” She met Deanna’s eyes and nodded, wondering suddenly if the desperately pale woman trembling in front of her was ill. “Madame Duras?”

“Yes.” Deanna couldn’t manage more than a whisper. Suddenly every moment of the trip had caught up with her. She just couldn’t anymore. She even found herself wishing for Marc.

“Madame Duras, are you all right?” The young woman in the white uniform had a heavy accent but her English was fluent. Deanna only stared at her. Even she wasn’t quite sure. She felt very odd, as though she might faint.

“I have to… I think… May I sit down?” She looked around vaguely, and then watched in fascination while everything around her first turned gray, then shrank. It was like watching a slowly fading screen on a disgruntled television, as slowly… slowly… the picture just faded away. At last, all she heard was a hum. Then she felt a hand on her arm.

“Madame Duras? Madame Duras?” It was the same girl’s voice, and Deanna felt herself smile. She had such a pleasant young voice… such a pleasant… Deanna felt unbearably sleepy. All she wanted to do was drift away, but the hand kept tugging at her arm. Suddenly, there was something cool on her neck, and then her head. The picture returned to the screen. A dozen faces surrounded her, all looking down. She started to sit up, but a hand immediately restrained her, and two young men spoke urgently to each other in French. They wanted to transfer her to emergency, but Deanna rapidly shook her head.

“No, no, I’m fine. Really. I’ve just had a very long flight from San Francisco, and I haven’t eaten all day. Really, I’m just terribly tired and…” The tears welled up in her eyes again. She tried to will them away. Dammit, why did they want to take her to emergency? “I have to see my daughter. Pilar… Pilar Duras.”

The words seemed to stop them. The two young men stared at her, then nodded. They had understood. In a moment, with a hand at each elbow, she was on her feet, while a young nurse helped her straighten her skirt. Someone brought a chair, and the first nurse brought her a glass of water. A moment later the crowd had dispersed. Only the young nurse and the older one remained.

“I’m awfully sorry,” Deanna said.

“Of course not. You are very tired. You have had a long trip. We understand. In a moment we will take you to see Pilar.” The two nurses exchanged a glance, and the older one nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Thank you.” Deanna took another sip of water and handed back the glass. “Is Doctor Kirschmann here?” The nurse shook her head.

“He left earlier this afternoon. He was with Pilar all night. They performed surgery, you know.”

“On her legs?” Deanna felt herself trembling again.

“No. Her head.”

“Is she all right?”

There was an endless pause. “She is better. Come, you will see for yourself.” She stood aside to help her up, but Deanna was steady now and furious with herself for the time she had just wasted.

She was led down a long peach-colored hall and stopped at last at a white door. The nurse looked long and hard at Deanna, then slowly opened the door. Deanna took a few steps inside and felt the air freeze in her lungs. It was as though she could no longer breathe.

Pilar was wrapped in bandages, and covered with machinery and tubes. There was a severe-looking nurse sitting quietly in one corner, and at least three monitors were feeding out mysterious reports. Pilar herself was barely visible through the bandages, and her face was badly distorted by the various tubes.

But this time Deanna did not faint. She dropped the valise where she stood and advanced into the room with a firm step and a smile, as the nurse who had brought her in watched. She exchanged glances with the nurse on duty in the room. The woman approached, but Deanna didn’t notice. She continued to make her way toward the bed, praying for strength and fighting back tears with a heartbreaking smile.

“Hi, baby, it’s Mommy.” There was a soft groan from the bed, and the eyes of her child followed her steps. It was easy to see that Pilar knew her and understood. “Everything’s going to be just fine. Just fine…” She stood next to the bed and reached for Pilar’s one undamaged hand, and gently, almost so lightly as not to touch her, she took the hand in both of hers, lifted it to her lips, and kissed the fingers of her little girl. “It’s all right, my darling, you’re going to be fine.”

There was a gruesome sound from the girl in the bed.

“Shh… you can talk to me later. Not now.” Deanna’s voice was barely more than a whisper, but it was firm.

Pilar shook her head. “I…”

“Shhh…” Deanna looked distressed, but Pilar’s eyes were too full of words.

“Is it something you want?” Now Deanna watched, but there was no answer in the eyes. Deanna glanced at the nurse. Could she be in pain? The nurse approached, and together they watched and waited as Pilar tried again.

“Gl… ad… youuu… came.” It was a thread-like, fragile whisper from the bed, but it filled Deanna’s heart with passion and tears. Her eyes filled. She forced herself to smile while she went on holding Pilar’s hand.

“I’m glad I came too. Now don’t talk, baby. Please. We can talk later. We’ll have a lot to say.”

This time Pilar only nodded yes, and then at last, closed her eyes for a while. The nurse told Deanna when they stepped into the hall that except for when they operated and she had been given an anesthetic, Pilar had been awake the entire time, as though she were waiting for someone, for something, and now it was easy to see why.

“Your being here will make an enormous difference, you know, Madame Duras.” Pilar’s nurse spoke impeccable English and looked terribly crisp. Deanna was relieved at her words. Pilar had been waiting for her. She still cared. It was stupid that at a time like this that should matter, but it did. She had feared that even in direst circumstances, Pilar might still reject her. But she had not. Or had she really been waiting for Marc? It didn’t matter. Deanna walked softly back inside the room and sat down.

It was more than two hours before Pilar woke, and she only lay there watching her mother, her gaze never leaving Deanna’s face. At last after their eyes had seemed to hold for hours, she thought she saw Pilar smile. Deanna approached the bed again and gently took the girl’s hand once again.

“I love you, darling. And you’re doing just fine. Why don’t you try to get some more sleep?”

But her eyes said no. They stayed open again for an hour, watching, only watching, staring into her mother’s face, as though drinking it in, as though she were reaching out with the words she couldn’t find the strength to say. It was another hour before she spoke again.

“Doggie…” Deanna looked puzzled, and Pilar tried again. “Did… you… bring my… doggie?” This time Deanna could not stop herself from crying. Doggie, the treasure of the years when she’d still been a child. Doggie, so old and dirty and bedraggled, and finally retired to a remote shelf somewhere in the house. Deanna had never been able to throw it out. Doggie brought back too many memories of Pilar as a child. Now Deanna watched her, wondering if she still knew where she was, or if she had drifted back to some distant place, to childhood, and Doggie.

“He’s waiting for you at home.”

Pilar nodded with a tiny smile. “O.K…” The word was feather soft on her lips as she drifted back to sleep.

Doggie. It brought Deanna back a dozen years as she sat in the narrow chair and let her own thoughts wander back to when Pilar had been three, and four, and five, and nine… and then too soon twelve, and now almost sixteen. She had been so sweet when she was little, so tiny and graceful, the little girl with the golden curls and blue eyes. The delicious things she had said; the dances she sometimes had done for her parents when she played; the tea parties she’d held for her dolls; the stories she’d written, the poems, the plays; the blouse she had made Deanna one year for her birthday from two chartreuse kitchen towels… and Deanna had worn it, very seriously, to church.

“Madame Duras?” Deanna was jolted back from a great distance at the sound of the unfamiliar female voice. She looked around, startled, and saw a new nurse.

“Yes?”

“Do you not wish to rest? We can make you a bed in the next room.” Her face was very gentle, and the eyes were wise and old. She patted Deanna’s arm with her hand. “You have been here for a very long time.”

“What time is it now?” Deanna felt as though she had been living in a dream for hours.

“Nearly eleven.”

It was two P.M. in San Francisco. She had been away from home for less than twenty-four hours, but it felt more like years. She stood up and stretched.

“How is she?” Deanna looked intensely at the bed.

The kindly nurse hesitated for a moment. “The same.”

“When is the doctor coming back?” And why the hell hadn’t he been there in the five hours that Deanna had been at Pilar’s side? And where was Marc, dammit? Wasn’t he coming? He’d whip these morons into shape and then things would start to move. Deanna glared at the monitors, irritated at the hieroglyphics they wrote.

“The doctor will be back in a few hours. You could get a little rest. You could even go home for the night. We have given Mademoiselle another injection. She will sleep now for quite a while.”

Deanna didn’t want to leave, but it seemed as though it might be time to put in her appearance at her mother-in-law’s house. She could find out if they had located Marc and see what was happening with this doctor. Who was he? And where? And what did he have to say? The only thing Deanna knew now was that Pilar was critical. Deanna felt desperately helpless, sitting there for hours, waiting for an explanation, or a sign, something to herald encouragement or good news… someone to tell her it was nothing. But that would have been difficult to believe.

“Madame?” The nurse watched her sorrowfully.

Deanna looked almost as wan as Pilar as she picked up her bag. “I’ll leave a number where I can be reached, and I’ll be back soon. How long do you think she’ll sleep?”

“At least four hours, perhaps even five or six. But she will not be awake before three. And I promise… if there is a problem, or if she wakes and wants you, I will call.”

Deanna nodded and jotted down Marc’s mother’s number. She looked agonizingly into the nurse’s eyes. “Call me immediately if… I should come.” She couldn’t bring herself to say more but the nurse understood. She clipped Deanna’s number to the chart and smiled into Deanna’s very tired eyes.

“I will call. But you must get some sleep.”

Deanna could never remember feeling so tired in her life, but the last thing she planned to do was sleep. She had to call Ben. Talk to the doctor. Find out about Marc. Her mind raced and she felt dizzy again. She steadied herself against the wall, but this time she did not faint. She merely stood for a long moment, looking at Pilar. Then, with eyes flooded with tears, she left the room, her suitcase in one hand, her coat over her arm, and her heart dragging behind her.

She found a taxi at a stand across the street from the hospital and sank back into the seat with a sigh so loud it was almost a groan. Every inch of her was tired and painful and sore, every fiber in her body was tense and exhausted, and her mind never seemed to stop its constant whirring: Pilar as a baby… Pilar last year… Pilar at seven… Pilar in her room. In school. At the airport. With a new hairdo. Her first stockings. A red bow. It was a never-ceasing film she had been watching all day, sometimes with the sound track, sometimes without, but it was a vision she couldn’t escape, even as the cab sped through Paris to the rue François Premier.

It was an elegant neighborhood, conveniently located near Christian Dior. The street was as pretty as any in Paris, quite close to the Champs Élysées. When she was younger, Deanna had often escaped in the afternoon to look at the shops and have an espresso at a café before returning to the austerity of life at her mother-in-law’s, but now all thought of those days slipped from her mind. She rode blindly along, exhaustion enveloping her like a blanket drenched in ether.

The driver was smoking a Gauloise papier maïs and singing an old song. He was too happy to notice the gloom in the backseat, and when he stopped at the address, his eyes met Deanna’s with a lure and a smile. She didn’t notice. She simply handed him the money and got out. The driver only shrugged and drove away as she plodded toward the door. It had not gone unnoticed that her mother-in-law had not been at the hospital all evening. The nurse said she had been with Pilar for two hours in the morning. Two hours? That was all? And left her in that appalling condition all alone? It proved everything Deanna had always thought. Madame Duras had no heart.

She rang the doorbell with two quick, sharp jabs, and the heavy wooden outer door swung open before her. She stepped over the high threshold and closed the door behind her, making her way quickly to the tiny elegant cage. She always felt as though there ought to be a canary in that elevator and not people, but today her thoughts were far from flip as she pressed the button for the seventh floor. It was the penthouse; Madame Duras owned the entire floor.

A faceless maid in a uniform was waiting at the door, when Deanna stepped out. “Oui, madame?” She looked Deanna over with displeasure, if not disdain.

“Je suis Madame Duras.” Deanna’s accent had never been worse, and she didn’t give a damn.

“Ah, bon. Madame is waiting in the salon.” How sweet. Pouring tea? Deanna felt her teeth grind as she marched behind the maid toward the living room. Nothing was unusual, nothing was out of place. No one would have believed that Madame Edouard Duras’s granddaughter lay, possibly dying, in a hospital two miles away. Everything appeared to be in perfect order, including Madame Duras, as the maid escorted Deanna into the room. Her mother-in-law was wearing dark green silk and an impeccable coiffure, her step was firm as she walked toward Deanna with an extended hand. Only her eyes betrayed her concern. She shook hands with Deanna and kissed her on both cheeks looking with dismay at the expression on her daughter-in-law’s face.

“You’ve just come?” Her eyes glanced immediate dismissal to the maid, who instantly fled.

“No. I’ve been with Pilar all evening. And I’ve yet to see the doctor.” Deanna pulled off her jacket and almost fell into a chair.

“You look very tired.” The older woman watched her with a face set in stone. Only the wily, old eyes suggested that someone did indeed live behind the granite of her face.

“Whether or not I’m tired is beside the point. Who the hell is this Kirschmann and where is he?”

“He is a surgeon and he is known all over France. He was with Pilar until late this afternoon, and he will see her again in a few hours. Deanna”- she hesitated, then said more gently-“there is simply nothing more he can do. At least not for the moment.”

“Why not?”

“Now we must wait. She must get her strength. She must… live.” Her expression showed pain at the word, and Deanna ran a hand across her eyes. “Would you like something to eat?”

Deanna shook her head. “Just a shower and a little rest. And” -she looked up with an expression of agony in her face- “I’m sorry to just march in like this. I haven’t said any of the appropriate things like ‘good to see you,’ ‘how are you,’ but Mamie, I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

“I understand.”

Did she? Deanna wondered. But what did it matter now if she did or not.

“I do think you should eat, my dear,” Madame Duras was saying. “You look very pale.”

She felt very pale too, but she simply wasn’t hungry. She couldn’t have eaten, no matter what. Not tonight. Not after seeing Pilar limp and broken in that bed, asking for Doggie, and too weak to hold her mother’s hand.

“I’ll just shower and change and get back. It’s liable to be a long night. By the way, have you heard from Marc?” Her brows knit as she asked. Her mother-in-law nodded.

“He’ll be here in an hour.”

An hour… One hour. After more than two months, Deanna felt nothing inside except what she felt for Pilar.

“He’s coming in from Athens. He’s very upset.”

“As well he might be.” Deanna looked his mother straight in the eye. “He bought her the motorcycle. I begged him not to.”

Madame Duras instantly bridled. “Deanna, he cannot be blamed. I’m sure he feels quite badly enough.”

“I’m sure he does.” She looked away, then stood up. “He’ll be landing in an hour?”

“Yes. Will you go to meet him?”

Deanna started to say no, but something inside her wavered. She was thinking of Pilar, and how the child looked… how it would be for Marc walking in, as she had, and seeing her for the first time. It seemed cruel to let him walk into that alone. Pilar was his baby, his treasure, his child. She was also Deanna’s, but to Marc, Pilar was almost a goddess. She couldn’t let him face it as she had. She had to meet him at the plane.

“Do you have his flight number?” His mother nodded. “Then I’ll go. I’ll just wash my face. I won’t bother to change. Can you call a taxi?”

“Certainly.” The elder Madame Duras looked pleased. “I’ll be more than happy to. Fleurette will make a sandwich for you.” Fleurette, little flower. The name of the immensely rotund cook Madame Duras employed had always struck Deanna funny, but not tonight. Nothing was funny anymore. She nodded curtly at her mother-in-law and hurried down the hall. She was just about to turn into the guest room when she noticed the painting in a dark passage. Left there, unwanted, unloved, unadmired, forgotten. It was the portrait of herself and Pilar. Madame Duras had never been very fond of it. Now, without thinking further, Deanna decided that this time she’d take it home, where it belonged.

In the familiar guest room, she looked around. Everything was a polite shade of sandy beige, in damask or silk, and the furniture was all Louis XV. It was a room that had always seemed cold to Deanna, even when she had slept in it on her honeymoon with Marc. She ran a comb through her hair and tried to make herself think of Marc. What would it be like to see him again? To see his face, touch his hand… after Ben. Why was it that Ben seemed more real to her now, or was he only a dream? Had she once more been swallowed alive by this beige silk world, never to return? She wanted desperately to call Ben but she didn’t have time. She had to get to the airport in time to catch Marc as he left the gate from the plane, or she’d miss him entirely. She wondered if there were any way to leave a message that she was coming, but she knew from experience that such messages always went astray. A man with a thin, thready voice would stand in a corner of the airport whispering to himself, “Monsieur Duras… Monsieur Duras,” as Marc marched unknowingly by. And if he did get it, it might frighten him too badly about Pilar. She could at least spare him that.

The maid knocked on the guest-room door and told her the taxi was waiting. As she spoke the words, she handed Deanna a small package. Two ham sandwiches and part of a chicken. Perhaps Monsieur would be hungry too. Hungry? Jesus, who could eat?

Unlike the earlier ride from the airport which had seemed interminable, this one seemed much too short. She found herself nodding slowly off to sleep in the backseat as they raced along into the night, her thoughts jumping in disjointed confusion from Pilar to Ben to Marc. It seemed only moments later that the cab screeched to a halt.

“Voilà.”

She muttered an absentminded “merci” to the driver, paid the fare and a handsome tip, and hurried inside, smoothing her skirt again as she ran. She was beginning to feel as though she hadn’t changed her clothes in a week, but she didn’t really care how she looked, she had too many other things on her mind. She glanced at the big board that listed the flight numbers and the gates and started out at a run in the direction of the gate from which she knew he’d come. The flight had just landed. It would be only a minute or two before the passengers would deplane. She had just enough time to make it. First-class passengers always debarked first, and Marc always traveled first class.

She darted in and out between other travelers, almost stumbling over someone’s bags. But she reached the area just as the first passengers were coming through customs, and with a sigh backed off into a corner to watch. For a mad moment she wanted to surprise him, to show him that she cared, despite her betrayal of the summer. But even in this ghastly time of agony over Pilar, she wanted to hold out something to Marc, to make it easier for him. She would simply walk up beside him with a touch of the hand and a smile. She could still do that for him, she could give him a moment of pleasure in the midst of so much pain. She pulled her jacket closer around her and looked down at the cravat on her ivory silk shirt. Seven or eight people had already walked past her, but there was still no sign of Marc.

Then suddenly she saw him, tall and thin and narrow and neat, impeccably orderly and well tailored, even after the flight. She noticed with surprise that he looked less distraught than she had feared. Obviously, he did not yet understand how serious things were, or maybe… And then, as she took a step from her hiding place, Deanna felt her heart stop.

He was turning, with a slow, soft smile, the smile that called her Diane and not Deanna. She saw him reach out and take a young woman’s hand. She was yawning sleepily, and he let his hand drift to her shoulder as he pulled her close. The woman said something and patted his arm. Deanna watched them in speechless stupefaction, wondering who the girl was, but not even really caring. What she had seen was the missing piece in the puzzle, the answer to so many years of questions in her life. This was no casual acquaintance, no girl he had picked up on the flight. This was someone he was comfortable with, familiar with, someone he knew well. The way they walked and spoke and moved and shared told Deanna everything.

She stood riveted to the floor in the corner, with her hand raised in horror to her barely open mouth, and watched them walking away from her down the concourse until she could no longer see them. Then, her head down, running, seeing no one, and wanting desperately not to be seen, she ran toward the exit and hailed a cab.