Coming Home (32 page)

“Okay.”

They lay together on the couch in front of the television, Katie’s
warm little body curled up against his, her mangy Pooh bear clutched in her
arms.  When she was born, he and Casey had agreed to give Katie as normal an
upbringing as possible.  It wasn’t easy.  She’d spent her infancy on the road,
carted around from backstage to backstage in an infant sling, cuddled close
against her mother’s chest.  By the time she was two, she’d been to Europe
several times, and was as comfortable on an airplane as she was riding in a
car.  By the time she was three, she knew the lyrics to all his songs, and
wasn’t shy about belting them out for any unsuspecting victim she could coerce
into standing still to listen. 

In spite of this rather unorthodox upbringing, there were no
nannies or fancy private schools for their Katydid.  Katie Fiore attended
public school, and was a very ordinary kid whose father just happened to be one
of the world’s biggest rock stars. As a result of this enforced normalcy, Katie
was a charming child, bright and inquisitive and open to new experiences.  And
she was the absolute light of his life. 

They napped for a time.  When he awakened, Katie was fussing,
rubbing at her eyes, her nose, her neck.  “Daddy,” she said, “my neck hurts.”

She’d grown terribly warm in the last hour, limp and sticky and
listless.  The glassy look in her eyes made him uneasy.  He got the thermometer
from the bathroom and took her temperature, and was stunned to see that it was
nearly 106 degrees.

He tried to reach Casey at the hotel in New York, but she was
out.  He left a message, then dialed Mark Johnson’s private home number.  Mark
and his family were eating dinner, and he apologized for the interruption. 
“But this isn’t normal,” he explained.  “She’s never run a fever this high.”

“It’s probably nothing,” Mark said, “but I’d like to check her
out, just to be safe.  Meet me at the emergency room in a half-hour, and we’ll
see what’s up with Miss Katie.”

***

The dinner meeting with Rothman and company was a resounding
success.   Casey was almost certain that the producer had already made up his
mind before he met them, and the deal he offered was sweet.  Rothman was
anxious to start work as soon as possible, perhaps even by the first of the
week if they could swing it.  By gentlemen’s agreement, they shook hands and
celebrated their partnership with a magnum of Dom Perignon.

They called it a night relatively early by New York standards. 
Outside the restaurant, Rob tucked his hands into his pockets and jingled a
handful of change.  “It’s a beautiful night,” he said.  “Let’s walk.”

They fell into step together and began to amble, in no hurry on
this beautiful spring evening.  “So what do you think?” she said.

“About the deal?  I think it’s one hell of a coup.”

“Big bucks,” she said.

“True, but I was thinking more about the opportunity to reach a
new audience.  Broadway—that’s serious stuff for a composer.”

“It is, isn’t it?”  She tucked her hands into the pockets of her
jacket and looked up at the sky.  “What, oh what, am I going to do about
Katydid?  I can’t leave her behind in California.  Not for three months.  But I
don’t want to pull her out of school before the year’s out.”

“Leave her there with Danny.  He’ll take good care of her.  He’s
absolutely nuts about that kid.”

“I know.  She’s the best thing that ever happened to him.  But I’d
go crazy if I had to go three whole months without seeing her.”

“Then hire a nanny and bring her with you.”

“What about school?”

“She’s only in kindergarten, Fiore.  Are you afraid she’ll flunk
sandbox?”

“I’m being silly, aren’t I?”

“No.  You’re being a mother.”

“Look,” she said, “a toy store.  I promised Katie I’d bring her a
Cabbage Patch doll.  She’ll never forgive me if I forget.”

The display window was loaded with toys of every conceivable
kind.  Inside, a twenty-foot sculpture constructed entirely of giant Lego
blocks stood behind a makeshift fence designed to keep small fingers from
toppling it.  She dragged Rob past it and followed her nose to the doll
department.  Somewhere along the way, she lost him.  Knowing he’d eventually
come wandering back, she studied the endless array of dolls, trying to decide
between the gypsy and the cowboy.  Or maybe the ballerina.

Rob came around the corner, carrying a mammoth plastic laser gun. 
He pointed it at her and squeezed the trigger, and it erupted into flashing red
lights and an ear-splitting electronic shrieking that probably had dogs howling
in all five boroughs.  “That’s a big gun you have there, sailor,” she said. 
“Sure you know how to use it?”

“Ow.”  He grabbed his midsection and staggered backward as though
he’d been shot.  “What a low blow, Fiore,” he said.  “You should be ashamed of
yourself.”

“That’s what you get,” she said, “when you play in the big
leagues.  Come on, Flash, you’re Katie’s godfather.  Help me decide which one
to get.”

“Well, let’s see.”  He stepped back and studied the shelf display
with a frown of concentration.  “I’m partial to the clown.”

“You would be.”

“But the doctor’s okay, too.  Why don’t you just get her both?”

“Those words could only be spoken,” she said dryly, “by a man who
has never raised a child.”

“Why?”

“Because if you don’t exercise restraint, lovey, they turn into
merciless tyrants.  Where do you think the term
enfant terrible
came
from?”

“Aw, come on, Fiore.  How can you say no to a face like that?”

“Years of experience with the big kid before I got the little
one.”

“Tell you what.  You buy one, and I’ll buy the other one.”

Casey rolled her eyes.  “I knew it was a mistake when I asked you
to be Katie’s godfather.”

“Too late,” he said.  “I’m non-returnable.”

As they crossed the hotel lobby, the desk clerk discreetly flagged
her down.  “Mrs. Fiore,” she said, “your husband has been trying to reach you
all evening.  He said it was urgent.”

Casey felt a pang of unease.  Rob squeezed her shoulder.  “I’m
sure it’s nothing serious,” he said.  “We’ll call him from upstairs.”

But when she dialed home, all she got was her own recorded voice
telling her that although the Fiores weren’t home, they would be more than
happy to return any messages.  “Danny?” she said after the beep.  “Are you
there?”

There was no response.  She met Rob’s eyes and frowned.  “I’m back
at the hotel,” she said into the phone.  “Call me when you get in.”

“See,” Rob said when she hung up, “he’s not even there.  Probably
took Katie out to McDonald’s.”

“Maybe.”  But the uneasiness refused to go away.  She hung her
coat in the closet and kicked off her heels and drew her hair up off the nape
of her neck.  “I’m going to take a shower,” she said.  “Let me know if he
calls.”

The phone rang before she’d taken two steps. She exchanged glances
with Rob, backtracked, and picked it up.  “Hello?” she said.

“Jesus Christ,” Danny thundered, “where the hell have you been? 
It’s past eleven.  I’ve called every fifteen minutes for the past three hours.”

“You knew we were having dinner with Rothman.  We walked back, and
we—”  She stopped suddenly, realizing how uncharacteristic it was for him to
shout at her.  Or to question her whereabouts.  “Danny,” she said, “what’s
wrong?”

“Katie’s in the hospital,” he said.  “She has meningitis.”

She could actually feel the blood draining from her face.
“Meningitis,” she echoed in disbelief.  Across the room, Rob set down the
cabbage patch doll he’d bought.  It wore gaudy pantaloons with red and purple
polka-dots, and ridiculously big shoes.  “That’s not possible,” she said, her
voice shaking.  “Katie’s never been exposed to anything like that—”

“Mark says it’s a complication of that throat infection she keeps
getting.”

She wet her lips.  Terrified to ask, more terrified to not ask,
she said, “How serious is this?”

“It’s bad,” he said, and his voice broke.  “You have to come
home.  I need you.”

***

Those first twenty-four hours, while Katie Fiore struggled for
life, were the darkest hours Casey had ever lived through.  She sat in mute agony
while Danny paced like a caged tiger, wrinkled and unshaven, smoking cigarette
after cigarette in blatant disregard of the NO SMOKING sign on the wall above
his head.  While Mark Johnson and his colleagues battled the infection with
antibiotics, Casey was rendered helpless, unable to do a thing except pray that
God would spare her daughter’s life.  They were allowed to see Katie once each
hour, for five minutes at a time, and then they were hustled back to the
waiting room for another interminable fifty-five-minute vigil.

At some point during that endless night, Mark came in to talk to
them.  He looked wiped out as he took both Casey’s hands in his huge, capable
paws.  “We’re doing everything we can to fight this,” he said.  “We’re taking
the most aggressive stance that’s humanly possible.”

Casey’s tongue felt twice its normal thickness.  She licked her
lips and tried to find her voice.  “Is she going to die?” she said.

Mark squeezed her hand.  “I don’t know,” he said.

Across the room, Danny leaned his forehead against the cinder
block wall.  “This is my fault,” he said raggedly.  “It’s all my fault.”

Mark released Casey’s hand and said smoothly, “It’s not your
fault.  You had no way of knowing how serious it was.”

Danny turned on him.  “I should have recognized the signs!  I was
in Vietnam with a guy who died of meningitis!  I watched him die!”

“Even we weren’t sure until we had the lab results.  Stop
punishing yourself and start comforting your wife.  She needs you right now.” 
With a pat to Casey’s shoulder, he left them alone again.

Danny sat down heavily beside her.  “If she dies—” he said
brokenly.

“Stop it!” Casey snapped.  “She’s not going to die!”

He fumbled for her hand, took it in his.  Squeezed it, and they
took strength from each other.  “I love you,” he said.  “I know I don’t say it
often enough. I thought I’d go crazy while I waited for you to get here.”

“I know.  I felt the same way.”

“She’ll be all right,” he said.  “She has to be.”

Somehow, she fell asleep, right there on the waiting room couch,
with her head cradled in Danny’s lap.  She awoke when Rob arrived with
doughnuts and coffee.  “How is she?” he said.

Danny ran the fingers of both hands through his hair.  “No
change,” he said.  “It’s so goddamn frustrating.”

Rob put a steaming cup of coffee in Casey’s hand and wrapped her
fingers around it.  “Drink,” he said.

She inhaled the coffee’s rich aroma and closed her eyes.  “Thank
you,” she said.  “How is it that you always know exactly what I need?”

“I’m a wizard.  Dan?”  He handed Danny a second steaming cup. 
“You both look like shit,” he said.  “Why don’t you go home and get some
sleep?  I can watch over things here for a while.”

“No,” they both said at once.

“Look,” Rob said, “you won’t be doing Katie any good if you both
get sick.  Somebody has to take care of her when she comes home.”

“There is one thing you can do for me,” Casey told him.  “Call
Rothman.”

Rob’s mouth thinned.  “And tell him what?”

“Tell him I have a family emergency.  Give him my regrets. 
Convince him that you can do the job without me.”

“Without you?  Are you crazy?”

“Do it,” she said.  “Do it for me.”

Rob didn’t look pleased, but he didn’t argue.  Because there was
little he could do at the hospital, he left again.  Casey tried to eat one of
the doughnuts, but after a few bites, she gave up.  Still in the black cocktail
dress and heels she’d worn to dinner with Rothman, she lay on the couch with
Danny’s arms around her and fell back into a shallow, troubled sleep.

She woke when Mark came in, carrying a clipboard and looking as
though he hadn’t slept in weeks.  “Guys,” he said, and sat down in the chair
across from them.

Casey sat up and leaned forward, her heart in her throat.  “Mark? 
Has there been a change?”

He tapped his pen on the clipboard.  “It appears,” he said, “as
though we have the infection under control.  Her fever’s dropped four points.”

“That’s good news,” Casey said hesitantly.  “Isn’t it?”

His face remained solemn.  “It’s good news,” he said.

Danny leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees.  “But?” he
said.

“But.”  Mark cleared his throat.  “She doesn’t seem to be
responding.”

“What do you mean?” Casey demanded.  “What does that mean?”

“It means that—”  Mark looked at them, ran a hand through his
rumpled hair, and sighed.  “Katie’s slipped into a coma.”