Summer’s End

21

“Marc?” She reached out to him as he and another man carried her to the car.

“Quiet, darling, don’t talk.” His face was a pale, perspiring gray.

“Put me down. Really, I’m all right.”

“Never mind that.” He thanked the man who had helped him carry her to the car, and once more clarified their directions to the nearest hospital.

“What? Don’t be crazy. I only fainted because it was so hot.”

“It was not hot, it was quite cool. And I won’t discuss it.” He slammed the door on her side and got in behind the wheel.

“Marc, I will not go to the hospital.” She put a hand on his arm. Her eyes implored him, but he shook his head. She was a pale, opaque kind of gray. He started the car.

“I’m not interested in what you will ‘not’ do.” His face was set. He didn’t want to go to a hospital again, didn’t want to hear those sounds, or smell those odors around him. Never… never again. He felt his heart race. What if it were serious? What if she were very ill? What if… He glanced at her again, trying to mask his fear, but she was looking away, staring out at the countryside. He glanced at her profile and then down at her shoulders, her hands, everything draped in so much black. Austere. It seemed symbolic of everything happening to them now, everything they said. Why could they not escape it? Why wasn’t this simply a weekend in the country, from which they would return relaxed and happy to find Pilar with that dazzling smile on her face. He looked over at Deanna once more, and let out a sigh. The sound dragged her eyes back from the road.

“Don’t be so silly, Marc. Really, I’m perfectly all right.”

“On verra.” We’ll see.

“Would you rather we just go back to Paris?” Her hand trembled as she rested it in his, and he looked sharply at her again. Paris-and Chantal. Yes, he wanted to go back. But first he had to know that Deanna was all right.

“We’ll go back to Paris once you’ve seen a doctor.” She was about to protest again, but a wave of dizziness swept over her. She put her head back on the seat. He looked at her nervously and stepped on the gas. She didn’t argue, she didn’t have the strength.

It was another ten minutes before they pulled up in front of a small efficient-looking building with the sign HÔPITAL SAINT GÉRARD. Without a word, Marc got out of the car and came quickly to her side, but when he held open the door, Deanna made no move to get out.

“Can you walk?” There was terror in his eyes again. What if this were the beginning of a stroke? Then what would he do? She’d be paralyzed and he’d have to stay with her always. But that was madness, he wanted to stay with Deanna, didn’t he? His pulse raced as he helped her out of the car.

She was about to tell him again that she was all right. By now they both knew she was not. She took a deep breath and stood up with a tiny smile. She wanted to prove to him that she’d make it, that this was only nerves. For a moment, as they walked into the hospital, she felt better, and wondered why they had come. For a minute she even walked in her usual smooth, easy strides. Then, as she was about to boast of it to Marc-Edouard, an old man was rolled past them on a gurney. He was ancient and wrinkled, foul smelling, his mouth open, his face slack. She reached a hand out to Marc and passed out on the floor.

He gave a shout and collected her in his arms. Two nurses and a man in a white coat came running. In less than a minute they had her on a table in a small, antiseptic-smelling room, and she was awake again. She looked around for a moment, confused. Then she saw Marc, standing horrified in the corner.

“I’m sorry, but that man…”

“That’s enough.” Marc approached slowly, holding up one hand. “It wasn’t the old man, or the temperature in the church.” He stood next to her, very tall, very grim, and suddenly very old. “Let’s find out what it was-what it is. D’accord?” She didn’t answer as the doctor nodded to him, and he left.

He haunted the corridor, looking strangely out of place and glancing at the phone. Should he call her? Why shouldn’t he? What difference did it make? Who would see? But he didn’t feel like it now. His thoughts were with Deanna. She had been his wife for eighteen years. They had just lost their only child. And now, perhaps… He couldn’t bear the thought. He passed the phone once more, without even stopping this time.

It seemed hours before a young woman doctor came to find him.

And then he knew. And knew he could tell Deanna the truth. Or he could tell her a lie-a very small lie. He wondered if he owed it to her to tell her, to tell her that he knew-or if, instead, Deanna owed something to him.