Garden of Lies (23 page)

Then the rosy fantasy faded. She imagined what it would really [128] be like. Every day she’d

be pulled in two directions. She’d hear secondhand from the nursemaid, or maybe her mother,

about its first smile, its first steps. She’d probably end up creating the same distance she’d felt

with her own mother.

Oh, why was she making this so hard? Why couldn’t she grab hold with both hands, or simply

let go?

God, oh God, what should I do?

Staring at the drift of balled-up Kleenexes, Rachel felt a sudden self-loathing. This was not the

end of the world. She wasn’t the first woman to get knocked up.

She stood up. “Come on, let’s unpack these goodies you brought and eat before they get cold.

My head can’t take any more major news, or any more soul-searching.”

Instantly, Kay was reaching into the bags, pulling out plastic containers and foil-wrapped

packages.

“I wanted it to be practically a catered affair. Wait till you see what I got. French-style chicken

with grapes. Nova Scotia salmon. Pickled artichoke hearts ... Rachel? Are you okay?”

Rachel suddenly was dashing for the bathroom.
Oh Jesus, I’m going to throw up.

Afterwards, her stomach empty, the bathroom tile cold against her knees, head aching, she

sagged against the toilet seat.

Minutes later, from what seemed like miles away, she heard the front-door intercom, a faint

droning, then the clatter of Kay’s clogs, as she ran to answer it.

“Rachel!” she called. “It’s your mother. She’s on her way up!”

Oh Lord, not now.
But, yes, she had told Mama sometime last week that today would be fine to

drop by with those drapery samples. Mama, always trying to make everything more beautiful.

She doesn’t know I’m here. I told her I’d be on call, that she could go over the samples with Kay.

Rachel looked down at her rumpled bathrobe. Now she would have to dream up some reason why

she was home, looking like death warmed over.

She dashed to the sink and washed her face, blotting it with a washcloth to try to ease the

swelling around her eyes. Oh, what was the use? Mama would see in an instant that she’d been

crying.
If only I could tell her,
Rachel thought,
how wonderful if I could confide in her, let her

help me decide.

[129] But she knew what Mama would say. Have the baby, have my grandchild. An abortion—

she’d be shocked at the very idea. So why even involve her, drag her into this mess?

Emerging from the bathroom, Rachel found her mother at the front window, holding a swatch

of fabric against the frame. “Rachel! What a surprise. I didn’t know you’d be here. Do you like

this one? The blue is nice with the ... darling, what is it? You look awful. Are you sick?”

Rachel held out a hand as if to ward off her mother’s solicitousness. Anxiously, she looked

around for Kay, but her roommate had faded into the kitchen. Rachel heard the splashing of water

hitting the old enamel sink.

“It’s nothing ... just a bug I picked up. I’ll be fine.”

“Of course you will, but right now you belong in bed! Never mind about the drapes, they can

wait. You go climb right into bed, and I’ll make you some hot tea. Is your stomach upset, too?”

Rachel stared at Sylvie, perfectly put together in a navy-blue rayon suit with a peplum waist

and crisp white blouse. But the heady richness of her perfume, Chanel N° 5, was making Rachel’s

stomach tip like an overfull bucket. If she didn’t lie down soon, she’d be sick again.

Then somehow she was in her room, and Mama was turning down the bed for her, pressing a

cool washcloth to her forehead. Just like when she was little. And suddenly it was all too much.

Tears welled up, then began leaking from the corners of her eyes.

Oh, damn it all! I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to be weak. If only she’d leave me ... leave

right now, this very instant ... before I start telling her things I know I’ll be sorry for later. ...

“Rachel. Oh my darling girl, what is it? Can’t you tell me?”

Sylvie’s forest-green eyes now also glittered with tears, as if Rachel’s pain was hers, too. Her

face, that skin fine and powdery pale as a moth’s wing, seemed to sag. She held a cool, Chanel-

smelling hand to Rachel’s cheek.

“Mama, I’m pregnant.” The words came before Rachel could stop them.

Sylvie stared at her. Color rose in her pale cheeks. Her lips parted, revealing the moist pinkness

beyond the line of her coral lipstick. But she wasn’t melting into hysterics, thank God.

[130] “What are you going to do?” Her voice sounded surprisingly firm.

Now Rachel felt stunned. This didn’t seem like Mama, no, not like her at all. How could Mama

even imagine anything other than her having and keeping this baby? But then she thought back

and remembered the last time her mother had so surprised her, that day Rachel had come to

Daddy in the hospital, how strong, even sharp, Mama had been then.

“I don’t know,” Rachel murmured.

Mama’s hand slipped from her cheek, and she looked away.

Rachel followed her gaze. There, toward the corner, was the pine dresser Mama had found at a

country garage sale, and had stripped and varnished. And beside it, the cheval mirror and bent-

wood rocker from Rachel’s childhood bedroom. Mama had known they would look just right in

this room, she had such an eye for the right thing. Could she actually consider the ugly act Rachel

was contemplating now?

“Is he ... the father, I mean ... does he want this child?”

Rachel felt something inside her shrivel. “No.”

“I see.” Sylvie nodded, her coral mouth drawing into a firm but comprehending line. “How far

along are you?”

“Not far. Six weeks. But, oh Mama, to me it’s already
real.
A real baby.”

“A baby ...” Sylvie’s expression grew wistful, then she seemed to pull herself together, and

said, “Oh, Rachel, I wish I could tell you what to do. Or at least advise you. But how can I? The

right answer for me could be the wrong one for you.”

“But Mama, what would
you
do?” Rachel cried out.

“It was different in my day. People were far less ... accepting. For women in your position

there was no right choice, just the
only
choice.”

“But if I have this baby, it will change everything. Turn my whole life upside down.”

Sylvie, looking off toward the window, smiled faintly. “Babies always do.” Then she turned

back to Rachel, still smiling, her eyes shining with tears. “You turned mine upside down.”

“You want me to have it.” Rachel, hearing the accusing tone in her voice, hated herself. She

had no right blaming Mama.

[131] “No.” Sylvie shook her head. “I didn’t say that. Anyway, what I might want isn’t

important. I meant what I said, I can’t advise you. But I do ache for you, my darling. If I had been

in your shoes, I—” her voice cracked a little, “well, I’m not certain what I would have done, if I’d

had the choice.”

“Oh, Mama ...” Rachel bolted upright, grabbing hold of the blankets with both fists, clutching

hard. “I wish I knew what to do.”

“Whatever you decide, my darling, I’ll be here for you. I love you. Don’t ever forget that.”

Rachel felt a rush of gratitude that made her throat ache. And she felt something else, too. A

new sort of admiration for her mother.

“Will you tell Daddy?” she asked fearfully.

“No.” Sylvie shook her head. “Daddy loves you, but men don’t always see these things the way

we do.”

“Mama?”

“Yes?”

“Did you want me before I was born? Truly want me more than anything?”

For a long moment that seemed to tremble in the air between them, Sylvie was silent. Her cool

hands came to rest against Rachel’s on the blanket. And there it was—that slow, sad smile Rachel

had seen so many times.

“Yes, my Rachel. More than anything.”

David was looking straight through her.

Rachel felt as if she were just another part of the antiseptic landscape of the scrub room, as

anonymous as the tiled walls and stainless steel sinks. She shivered, feeling chilled, her stomach

beginning to cramp up again.

Please don’t do this. For God’s sake, don’t ignore me.

“Dr. Petrakis asked me to assist,” she explained lamely, hating him for somehow making her

feel as if she had to justify herself.

Trying to curb her anger, she stamped on the foot pedal that controlled the faucet, and thrust

her hands under the scalding water.

David’s eyes, when she looked up to meet them, were cool and remote, the flat green of the

tiled walls.

“She’s his patient,” he said with a little shrug.

[132]
And I’m a damn fool,
Rachel thought, fighting tears as she grabbed the Betadine brush,

scrubbing so hard she took the skin off her knuckles.

A week, seven awful days, and still she stood here like a moonstruck idiot, hoping, waiting for

a word, a sign, some glimmer of feeling. A week of being ignored, and worse. She had caught

him looking at her from time to time as if she were some bothersome loose thread left hanging

from the neat fabric of his life.

Was he punishing her? Or did he really, as Rhett Butler said, just not give a damn? Either way,

she would not go crawling to him. Screw him if he couldn’t see what he was giving up.

Rachel thrust her dripping hands into the air, letting the water trickle from her elbows. David

had just finished scrubbing at the sink beside hers, and she turned away quickly so he wouldn’t

see the tears in her eyes.

She pushed ahead of him through the swinging doors into the operating room. More green tiles,

stainless steel, cold white ceiling lights. Towel, gloves, then the scrub nurse was tying her into a

gown. Rachel nodded to the circulating nurse, a lithe copper-skinned girl named Vicki Sanchez,

who was busily laying out sterilized instruments on the Mayo stand. Scalpels. Hemostats. Suture

needles.

Beyond Vicki, a hulking gray-haired figure in rumpled surgical greens partially blocked

Rachel’s view of the operating table. Dr. Petrakis. He appeared to be leaning to one side. And as

he slowly, with exaggerated care, turned himself around to face her, she caught sight of the fiery

red suns of his eyes. A jolt of dread went through her stomach.

Jesus, he’s blasted out of his skull.

An emergency C-section to perform on a placenta previa, and here he was, three sheets to the

wind. In med school, they didn’t teach you how to handle a situation like
this.

Yet, amazingly, Petrakis seemed to be holding his own. Years of practice, she supposed. Still,

she found herself murmuring a little prayer.

“Where’s Henson?” growled Petrakis. “Are we supposed to stand here and watch the patient

bleed to death while that so-called anesthesiologist plays with himself upstairs?”

Coming from behind Rachel, David’s voice, cool, in control. [133] “Henson got hung up. I

called Gilchrist, he should be up any minute. Pediatrics, too. I thought the PDs should be on hand

just in case. What’s happening with the patient?”

Petrakis moved away, and Rachel saw her, a great beached mound of stomach rising from a

swirl of green surgical drapes, her skin varnished a sickly yellow-brown with Betadine. Like the

object of some grotesque pagan ritual in an H. Rider Haggard novel, she couldn’t help thinking.

“She’s holding at eight centimeters,” Petrakis answered. “Baby won’t be going anywhere for a

while. But she’s lost a couple hundred cc’s of blood. And I don’t want to wait around much

longer.”

Above the drapes, two dark eyes staring out of a white face, like cigarette holes burned in a

napkin. Rachel felt a stab of pity for her. No general anesthesia in this case, bad for the baby. A

light Demerol, maybe. This was one wide-awake, terrified young woman. And that raving idiot

Petrakis, talking about her as if she were a Volkswagen in a garage having a new muffler put in.

Rachel moved closer, signaling reassurance with her eyes. “It’ll be over soon, Senora,” she

soothed. “You’ll have your baby before you know it.”

The woman spoke, a reedy whisper Rachel had to bend close to, to hear. “I feel it coming,” she

said. “I have to push.”

An alarm jangled in Rachel’s head. No, no, with the placenta slipped down over the cervix,

pushing would be the very worst thing. It could cause a hemorrhage. Possibly fatal to her, to the

baby, or both.

But Petrakis had said the cervix was dilated eight centimeters. Two more to go. That usually

meant hours in a primipara. Still ...

Rachel looked up at Petrakis. “She says she has to push.”

He looked annoyed, she thought. Well, tough shit. Ten weeks on OB had taught her one thing,

at least. When a woman said she had to push, she meant it.

“Impossible,” Petrakis barked. “I examined her myself not ten minutes ago.”

David looked dubious as well. But at least he wasn’t ready to dismiss what the young woman

had said out of hand. “Let’s examine her again.”

Then Rachel saw something that made her heart turn a sudden [134] swift cartwheel. Knees up,

the patient was pushing, face clenched in a red fist of pain. Between her legs, the baby’s head was

crowning. A circle of glistening dark scalp the size of a quarter.

“Shit,” Petrakis said.

There was a split second in which everything seemed frozen, a scale hanging in balance,