LUCY SENSED HIS PRESENCE, EVEN BEFORE SHE OPENED HER EYES. HE HAD a smell that was apart from anything else in the hospital—vetiver, or bergamot, she thought. She smiled with her eyes still tightly shut for a moment longer, then she opened them and spoke.
“I’m sure I’m looking better today than you’ve ever seen me.” Her voice was thick, and didn’t sound at all like her own. She was in the intensive care unit, and ached in parts of her body she’d never been closely acquainted with, but she saw in Alex’s amused eyes that she’d found the power to convey some irony. And despite the bruising, and wires, and brutal incisions, she felt pleasantly sleepy.
“You look pretty good for eight or nine hours of surgery.”
His voice was clear and gentle as usual, but tired, she thought. And she knew that what he’d said wasn’t true: she knew without asking that she looked as wounded as she felt. But Alex himself was reassuringly calm looking at her. Peeping from behind a sterile mask, she noticed his eyes were devoid of their usual brightness, but they were doing their best to engage with her.
He moved closer. “Besides, you’ll get no sympathy from me. I thought I’d find you up and on the treadmill today. My secretary got an urgent message to me that your operation was scheduled for last Friday. I can’t believe you’d have wanted to delay it—or have second thoughts? What happened?”
She tried to speak to assure him she hadn’t got cold feet, explain why the postponement had happened. But he smiled and stopped her with a finger up to his lips. “Don’t worry—your throat still hurts from the tube. I’ll get the whole story from Mr. Azziz. Just tell me if you’re all right.”
Lucy slowly found her voice again, and she wanted to speak to him. “I wish I could say.” She took her time, trying to throw off the effects of the heavy painkillers that made her so deeply drowsy. “I’m trying to give you an intelligent answer. Discern what’s in my brain.” She was like a cat, stretching after sleeping too long near a fire. “Oh, and my heart. I forgot that…Today’s my birthday, the first day of a new life.”
“Well, perhaps that was the early hours of yesterday, when the operation was over. Many happy returns. And mine was yesterday too, so you see, we share one.”
Lucy smiled with slight confusion. “A nurse told me your birthday was Sunday—that you were in the country for lunch.”
“The true day was yesterday, though, September the twenty-second.” Alex couldn’t begin to tackle “Sunday in the country.” “Are you still tired from the sedation?”
“I’ve slept long, haven’t I? Have you been here for some time?” Her words were soft but quite distinct. She moved her neck a shade, though it had a tube in it; and she noticed he had a book and had been in the single chair. That was unusual, as he was always rushed off his feet. Another masked face came in and recorded something on her chart, which Alex then took over from her. She was aware, as the door opened, of the wonderful fragrance of jonquils—narcissi. Where were they, and where had they come from in September? Had Grace arranged them?
“I wanted to be here when you woke up.” Alex had been occupying himself with her notes for a moment, waiting for the sister to depart. “Mr. Azziz asked for me to check things before your surgery, and I couldn’t get here. I felt I’d let you down—although I can see you’ve managed annoyingly well without me.” He joked easily with her, and it had the desired effect of raising a warm smile. “I did put my head in late last night, but you weren’t waiting up for me.”
“Even doctors are entitled to a birthday lunch. And I’ve lost Monday. Anyway, you’ve been in the States?”
“I’d have come straight from lunch for you, Lucy. Something…just…came up. My family needed me.”
Alex’s voice betrayed a momentary loss of surety; and it confused her. What he’d just said had contained a compliment, and also a riddle. But the space between the two closed quickly when he replaced her chart and looked at her again with clarity.
“I’ve checked your medication and glanced at the tissue report and obs. I haven’t seen the notes from your surgery yet, but I’ll catch a word with Mr. Azziz or Mr. Denham about you today. It seems like serendipity. It’s not the heart you were originally coming in for, I gather, but a better one, possibly. Two suitable matches in as many days? You’re lucky.”
Lucy felt like she’d been through a terrible car crash, in truth; the drugs didn’t quite mask the top of the pain. But despite her dislocated sense of self, she strained to read something in Alex Stafford’s face that wasn’t usually there. She couldn’t discover it; couldn’t entirely recognize the stranger who had chased away his usual peace and quiet strength. Nor could she attempt bravado: she wasn’t physically up to it, and was tiring quickly. But she did her best.
“Don’t worry about the rest of the world today. I’m not going anywhere. You need one of these,” she said, pointing at her drip, “and to get yourself to bed. I’ve never seen you look so exhausted. You obviously had a rough trip.” Even through the ether of her drug-induced reverie, and despite the cloth hiding most of his face, she saw sharply that he hadn’t slept for, perhaps, a few days. He was a handsome man with nicely chiseled features, and always kind. The nurses loved to chat about him. But he looked ghastly today—his green eyes red-rimmed. Not a man you’d bring home to tea.
“All right.” He laughed, and was grateful for her perceptiveness. “I may look in tonight, and tomorrow you should be back in the step-down ward. I’ll join up with Mr. Denham then and we’ll go through your antibiotics with you, what we need to do to prevent infections after your surgery.” He adjusted her top sheet. “Is there anything you’d like?” He was in charge again. The mask between the man and the doctor had slipped only for a second. “You’re on nil by mouth for a day or so, so no roast beef and Yorkshire pudding just yet.”
Lucy was a vegetarian, which he knew well; but the joking idea sounded strangely like the comfort food her aunts used to give her as a child, and welcome. “Nothing now, thanks. Could I have some lemon tea tomorrow? I’m craving it.”
“Mm. Good choice. You need a taste for decaffeinated now.” He showed approval. “No dairy’s good, Lucy. I imagine the dietician will be in to see you late tomorrow. You’re no stranger to low fat, I know. Don’t forget low sodium now too. And the prednisolone raises your glucose level, so we’ll be monitoring your blood sugar very carefully.”
“And I can’t eat grapefruit, either, because of some drug or other.” She was teasing him; he’d told her all of this before, and she’d listened to him very carefully.
“Sorry! Not everyone holds on to these things. It’s a lot to take in.” Alex laughed genuinely, and was glad of the sound. “Yes, grapefruit is banned because of the cyclosporin. But you studied ballet for years, didn’t you? I don’t think you’ll give us trouble with your eating habits. And you could put a little weight back on.” Lucy was still painfully thin.
“Good morning to you, Lucy King. Well, it’s gone noon, actually.” A masked Mr. Azziz had appeared silently at the door in a sterile white coat, rather than his familiar blue. “Do you feel as though you’ve traveled to the Emerald City and returned with a new heart and the courage of a lion?” Every word was so succinctly pronounced that it gave him a permanent tone of beneficence.
“Good afternoon, dear Doctor-Wizard. I feel…strangely mellow.” Lucy was sunny with the attention from her two favorite people in the building. It dwarfed the sense of physical hiatus she was experiencing. Light filtered through the small window in the intensive care unit, becoming prismatic, like the colors in her patched quilt. A message from the goddess of the rainbow, perhaps, that she was on her way back toward life. She said with surprising control: “I have had a dream past the wit of man to say what dream it was.” The words presented themselves.
Alex and Amel Azziz looked at her very seriously; then the senior surgeon smiled, and turned to his immunologist.
“Dr. Stafford.”
Alex was instantly aware of unspoken sympathies. From Azziz’s look, he knew everything.
But he said simply, “Good to see you. Come and have a word, when you’ve a minute.”
Alex just nodded, and the surgeon turned back to Lucy. “Well, now. I will leave you to get some more rest. I think you can come out of the intensive treatment unit tomorrow morning—you look far too well to be in here! But take things gently; you have been all around the world, in a manner of speaking. I’ll be in my office, Dr. Stafford.” Though his words to the two of them had been characteristically unhurried, his physical self now vanished like an apparition, the door wafting the flowery scent again.
“Those flowers outside in the hall, the fragrance. So distinctive. They’re narcissi.” Lucy had returned her attention to them. “Do you know if a friend left them for me? I can’t understand how they can be there. Spring jonquils in autumn? Although they used to come out under my bedroom window in the middle of winter, in Sydney.”
“You’ve a good nose! They come from Liberty’s florist. They always have things out of season. They’re just a small apology for missing the show. You can’t have them in here, but I’m pleased you like them. They’re a token of a new spring, Lucy. They can follow you back to your room in a day or two. Now I must let you stop talking and get more rest. I’ll try and come back—unless I’m called to the other hospital.”
And he too was gone. Lucy thought over the significance of him buying her the flowers, and she labored through the haze of her drugs to understand why it meant so much to her. Was that a bit out of the ordinary? But she cautiously retreated from this dangerous zone. She was his patient; he was just one of her consultants. He was exactly as charming and kind to every patient, which she knew very well. He’d brought her roommate, Mrs. Morris, a book last week, and a senior nurse a Cymbidium for her birthday the week before. And Lucy rarely risked her feelings for anyone, in any case. If she weren’t in control, she’d walk the other way. But she let her senses swim in the scented air, in a dreamlike web of semisleep, at the end of a rainbow.
THE MOOD IN THE FLAT SEEMED SOMBER AND HEAVY, BUT A LIGHT BREEZE moved the curtain in front of an open window. It was an incongruously beautiful late September day with sunshine streaming in, and the fragrance of some white peonies placed on the piano carried to Siân, inert on the couch. She covered her ears as the phone rang again and Calvin, coffee mug in hand, quickly crossed the floor from the small kitchen to answer.
“Hello? Look, I’m sorry. Thanks for your condolences. I’ll tell her you called. She’s just not up to coming to the phone yet.” He listened for another moment and then interrupted the caller. “Yes, if you want to know the arrangements for Friday, you could call his brother.” Calvin reeled off a phone number and said goodbye in record time.
Siân’s blotched face looked up gratefully. “You’re sweet to handle all this for me. I’m so sorry. I can’t believe it’s knocked me this hard. How does word get out so fast?”
“Sure it’s hit hard. How long were you guys together? You don’t lose someone you were involved with so closely for years and just shrug it off, you know.” He passed her the coffee, then grabbed his coat and keys. “Look, I’m going to the store to get you something for lunch. A little hot grilled chicken, some salad?” He looked for a reaction, but she hardly heard. He picked up the card that had come with the peonies and placed it in her hands to remind her: “Don’t forget Will’s brother wants you to call him.”
He was nearly through the door when his cell phone rang.
“God, can’t they leave us alone for a day or two?” Siân’s patience snapped. She wanted to concentrate on her own emotions, not be burdened by the exhausting sympathies of her friends. That was too much. You cancel one day’s work, and suddenly the world knows your business. She’d shut off her own cell phone; but all sorts of well-meaning colleagues had tracked down Calvin to ask after her. But as he answered he shook his head at her, indicating it was for him, and waved goodbye, closing the heavy door behind him.
“THIS IS A STRANGE BUSINESS.” HIS VOICE WAS LOWERED, AND HE INCREASED his pace to clear the front of the sprawling Victorian building without being heard. These residential streets off the square were too quiet. “First my cousin dies. Then his father’s house is broken into. Did you have anything to do with that at all? The break-in? I understand we all want information, but it’s God-awful timing.”
“I know, Calvin.” The person at the other end refused to let his emotions rise. “I have no idea about it. I’m putting all my faith in your success, and so is Professor Walters.”
“Don’t worry, Guy. I’ll get control of the key. It’ll be back with his father now. I’ll hang in close here, and see what I can learn. But let’s at least be respectful.”
“Don’t let us down, Calvin. The papers we believe the key will take us to are going to be highly sensitive. This is our chance to know the whole picture. And I’m getting pressured from above. You know FW isn’t always a patient man, however much he protests otherwise.”
Calvin thought he sounded unusually nervous. “Believe me, Guy, I haven’t invested this much time myself to…”—he paused to find the right words—“…come up empty-handed. As one of the family I’ll be at the funeral Friday, and I’ll call you after the weekend, but don’t cramp me. This is a delicate process, and I need their trust if I’m to help you.”
“Help us, Calvin. Don’t forget what’s at stake for you.” The phone line clicked off.
ALEX FOUND COURTNEY DENHAM IN AMEL’S OFFICE, SCRUTINIZING SOME test results. “I can come back later.” He swung on his heel.
“Don’t worry, man, I’m done. You’ll be pleased to hear that Lucy King’s operation went really well. The tissue match might not have been quite as close for her as the first organ we found, but the heart itself was light-years better. She’s a fighter, that girl.”
Alex was genuinely fond of Courtney. He was Trinidadian, and his accent—which had never quite left him—was mellifluous and always full of humor, which was especially welcome today. He was also an impressive cardiologist.
He walked toward Alex and grasped his hand. “Sorry to hear the news, Alex. Will was a special human being. Wicked sense of humor. I was an admirer.”
Alex couldn’t manage a “thank you”; but he felt it, and confirmed the pressure in the hand. Courtney left the room.
“You shouldn’t even be here today, Alex. I asked your secretary to tell you that. We can manage without you for a while.”
“It’s easier, Amel; I’d rather be here, and be useful. Besides, Lucy has no family in the UK, and I think she depends on us more than usual. That backup from relatives is such a vital part of postoperative care, and she’s completely without it. I understand her flatmate is like a sister, but it’s not the same thing. I’m happy to do my bit.”
Others, being alert to heightened sensitivities, might have avoided the subject; but Amel judged Alex’s needs differently. “It was some kind of accident, I gather. Do you have any idea how it happened?”
Alex felt oddly relieved by the question. He couldn’t seem to go into this with his father, who was reeling from the loss of his wife and son in less than a year. He hadn’t wanted to answer Alex’s questions about police reports, and other possible drivers.
“Supposedly Will crashed into a bridge over high-running water, in the midst of thick fog. They suggest he was probably tired and not paying attention.” He spoke without emotion, then gazed up at Amel. “But I find that nearly impossible to believe. Will was too experienced on a bike. If he was tired—too tired to get it right—he’d have pulled over. He lived dangerously, I admit; but he knew the line between daring and madness.”
“The fog wouldn’t have blurred the two?”
“He knew the river; he knew every lane, better than anyone. I just can’t believe his misjudgment would be that serious. How do you get right across Italy, France, Greece, unscathed, and then make a tragic mistake a mile from home?”
Amel looked at his friend and colleague earnestly. “Alex, are you actually thinking there could be more to it?” He would have backed the young doctor, to anyone, against any charge of a fanciful imagination. A conspiracy theory would never be a child of Alex’s brain.
“I do wonder if another driver could have crowded him. A neighbor was first on the scene, gave him basic first aid, and got the emergency services. She told my father and the police that she thought she might have heard another vehicle—an engine. She couldn’t be sure. And I don’t want to upset my family. But I do think it’s possible that someone bumped him, then panicked and didn’t stop.”
Amel saw his friend and young colleague coping with all of this very well on the outside, just as he had when his mother had died earlier in the year; but he was sensitive to an unfamiliar note of strain in Alex’s voice. He knew better than to expect him to admit to it, however. “Leave it to the police, Alex.” Amel came over to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Let yourself mourn your brother. I’m sorry I didn’t know him—everyone here who knew him speaks well of him, and they’re all in shock. But I will come to the funeral for you, if you will allow me.”
Alex, who always thought Amel the busiest human on the planet, was moved. It took him a moment to phrase his thanks. “That’s kind, Amel. It would be good to have you there, if you can get away. It’s Friday.” Alex looked at his hands. “I hardly seem to have time to think what Will would have wanted for it.”
“Funerals are for the living, Alex, not for the dead. It’s what you and your father and friends need from it that’s important. Try to satisfy that—the need formally to say goodbye.” Amel understood that Alex had no faith to speak of—actually was a nonbeliever. They had talked honestly about it before. “Did Will share your religious views? Or lack of them, perhaps I should ask?”
“I think Will would have been happier with a testament found in Shakespeare than any from the Bible. But he had some strange corners to his spirituality. Practically the last message he left me was about our mother’s Bible; and there was a postcard from Chartres, and a copy of the Song of Solomon, in French, inside his jacket. So, I don’t know really.”
“Shakespeare sounds good to me. Let others make their own contributions. But you know, I like Hamlet’s advice to Horatio, that there might be ‘more things in heaven and earth.’”
Alex offered a quiet laugh. He knew Amel was a great scientist, and yet a believer too. Long talks had revealed him to be a complex man, and Alex respected Amel’s views—though they were not his own. He had suggested that Allah watched with humor as they all tried to gain clues to the immense secrets of his universe—that he watched their progress like an indulgent father—Darwin, the lot. For Amel, God and Science were not opponents. Science just gave them some of the tools to find their own godlike powers. And they had a long way to go, Amel said.
Alex looked up at his kind, wise face. He would be happy to have him there on Friday. It would help, somehow.