Confucius Jane (38 page)

Professor Ryan had been right. Sutton's father had been right. In this brave new world stripped clean of romance, it was time to face the truth. There were no spirits or magic or chi or luck. The facts were the facts. She had failed. She wasn't a real poet. She had no real prospects.

With one flick of her wrist, she swept the application off the desk and into the recycling bin below. The Sanitation Department would turn it into egg cartons or kitty litter or paper plates—infinitely more useful than poetry.

Wearily, Jane got to her feet, shut off the light, and slid into bed. Turning her back to her notebook, she closed her eyes and prayed for sleep to come.

 

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN

W
HEN THE COMPUTER SCREEN
began to blur in front of her eyes, Sutton rolled her taut shoulders and glanced at the clock. Just past nine on a Friday night. The rest of the lab was deserted, and a hush had fallen over the hallway outside. This was the time of day she liked the best—when none of her so-called friends were around to ask uncomfortable questions or shoot her pitying looks.

There had been even more of those since she had appeared at a press conference delivered by her father earlier in the week. She had stood by his side dressed in a navy Prada suit bought specifically for the occasion, publicly offering him her support as he apologized to his family, his profession, and the American people. As always, he had delivered the speech with eloquence, charisma, and that Southern-gentleman charm that had historically served him so well. It appeared to have worked this time, too—the surge of public sentiment against him seemed to be dying down ever since his remarks.

But while the nation's anger began to subside, Sutton remained conflicted. Her father hadn't made any more homophobic insinuations, thankfully, but he had begun talking as though her residency at Columbia was a fait accompli. And while she hadn't disabused him of that notion, she couldn't stop thinking of Jane's story about her mother. She wanted to find that balance between duty to her family and duty to herself, but how? Now that her own mother was showing signs of improvement, did she dare reconsider pursuing dreams? Or was that selfish and irresponsible?

In an effort to escape from both her father and her own indecision, Sutton had continued her workaholic ways—immersing herself in rounds and observations, and volunteering for even the most mundane surgical procedures. When the business of each day was over, she sought out the far corner of the computer lab to work on the changes Dr. Buehler had suggested to the latest draft of her next article.

She arrived early at the hospital each day of necessity, but she left late by choice. Where else did she have to go? The library was too social, coffee shops were too distracting, and Noodle Treasure was no longer an option. Every time she set foot in her apartment, she remembered being there with Jane. After a full week of insomnia, she had finally given in and started taking half a Xanax. Not a long-term solution, but she just needed to get through the next month without going insane from sleep deprivation.

Sutton powered down the computer and reached for her bag. There was always more to do, but she was quickly losing focus. She would go home, order in some kind of food that bore no relation to Chinese cuisine whatsoever, put on a mindless action movie, and try to recharge her batteries before spending most of the day in her mother's hospital room.

As she stood, her pager went off. Immediately on high alert, she glanced down expecting to see Tom's number, or maybe the ER's. But the digits were unfamiliar—an outside caller, not someone at the hospital. Her heart stuttered at the thought that it might be Jane … but no, it wasn't hers, either. Could it be someone from the press, trying to fool her into calling them back? Phone in hand, she hesitated before punching in the digits. She could always hang up. When the line connected and a female voice answered, Sutton mustered her best professional tone.

“This is Sutton St. James.”

“Dr. St. James. Thank you for calling me back.” The voice was soft but laced with tension. “I need to speak with you as soon as possible.”

“Are you a patient at Langone Medical Center?”

“Not anymore. My name is Celeste. I'm one of the women who haven't come forward.”

Sutton felt suddenly chilled. So many women had joined in the accusations about her father—many of whom, he protested, were simply jumping on the bandwagon for publicity. But this person wasn't among them? If she had something to say, why was she contacting Sutton, instead of the media?

“I need to speak with you,” Celeste repeated.

“Go ahead.”

“Not by phone. Are you willing to meet me? In a public place, of course.”

Sutton's alarm at the suggestion was mitigated by Celeste's caveat. Her mind raced as she tried to decide how to answer. The longer this conversation went on, the more curious she became. But she had to be safe.

“Can you meet in an hour at Pegu Club, on Houston?” The famous bar was always busy, and by choosing the time and location herself, she could mostly guarantee this wasn't some sort of sting.

“I'll be coming from uptown. Depending on traffic…”

Sutton was tempted to remind her of the existence of the subway. “Call or text if you'll be late,” she said instead, feeling as though she had slipped into a soap opera—albeit with a very polite and mild-mannered secret informant. “How will I recognize you?”

“I've seen you on television. I'll approach you.”

After Celeste disconnected, Sutton hurried out of the hospital. The bar was near her apartment, but she wanted to change out of her scrubs and arrive early. As she walked quickly through the streets, she found herself wishing she could call someone who would accompany her and watch surreptitiously as she had this conversation with Celeste. Theresa would think she was crazy. Jane would have been perfect for the role, but Sutton didn't dare ask her for a favor after slamming the door in her face. She would have to do this alone.

An hour later, she sat facing the door at one of the high tables near the bar, taking the occasional, shallow sip from her martini. Each time the door opened, her heartbeat accelerated and her shoulders tensed. After a few minutes, she could feel the first tendrils of a headache beginning to creep toward her temples. Just as she reached up to massage the back of her neck, a woman stepped into the bar, pausing immediately to survey her surroundings. Dark, glossy hair brushed the shoulders of her navy coat, and her khaki slacks ended in a fashionable pair of high-heeled, brown boots. When her eyes met Sutton's, she immediately moved in her direction.

“Dr. St. James, I'm Celeste. Thank you for meeting me. I know my request is unorthodox.”

Sutton felt her anxiety ease and her curiosity sharpen. Celeste didn't seem dangerous at all—no more dangerous than a younger version of her mother, anyway. “Please, call me Sutton.”

“Sutton.” Celeste looked around the bar furtively before she sat. “I saw the press conference you did with your father. I wanted to come to you earlier, but we … I wasn't certain of what to do.”

Her pronoun slip—from “we” to “I”—didn't escape Sutton's notice. Was Celeste a part of some kind of group? Her wariness increased tenfold, and she kept her mouth shut, waiting for Celeste to elaborate.

“I know you have no reason to trust me. Hopefully, you'll feel differently after you hear what I have to say.”

“Would you like to order a drink, ma'am?”

Celeste was startled by the sudden presence of the waiter. Visibly collecting herself, she ordered a gin and tonic, and looked furtively around the bar again as the man left.

“You were saying?” Sutton prompted.

“I'd prefer not to continue until he returns with my drink.”

Sutton took another sip from her own glass, hoping to settle her spike of nerves. What was Celeste so afraid of? She studied her more closely as they waited in silence—the string of pearls gleaming iridescently against the fabric of her sweater; the diamond-studded bracelet that peeked out from beneath one cuff; the dark shadows beneath her eyes that even makeup couldn't entirely conceal; the worry lines creasing the skin around her mouth. Two things were clear: Celeste was very wealthy, and under a great deal of stress.

After the waiter set down her drink, Celeste took a long sip and leaned forward once more. “In some ways, my story is not all that different from those of the women who have spoken up in public. Three years ago, I was diagnosed with a brain tumor—benign, thankfully, but it still required surgery. At the time, my husband had just retired from his corporate position and was in the process of beginning a run for a seat in the Senate. He had met your father at some sort of event and insisted that I go to him for treatment.”

“What happened then?” Sutton asked quietly when she paused to take another drink.

Celeste wouldn't meet her eyes. “I let myself get carried away. We struck up an affair, often meeting several times a week. I'm ashamed of how I behaved, Sutton. Ashamed, and deeply sorry for what I did to you and to your mother.”

“Why haven't you come forward?”

“Because there's more.” Celeste sighed, her well-manicured fingers curling around her glass. “I got pregnant. When I told your father, everything changed. He insisted I get an abortion.”

Sutton felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. “Pardon me?”

“My husband and I had been trying, before I was diagnosed with the tumor. But then we stopped, and … it was almost certainly your father's baby.” Her eyes filled. “But I wanted to keep it. I swore I would never tell. That I would raise it as my husband's.”

Suttons fingers felt like ice, and she clasped her hands together for warmth. “What did he say then?”

“He wouldn't hear of me keeping it. He said that if I didn't get the abortion, he would lobby behind the scenes so that my husband would be certain not to win the primary.”

“Oh my god.” Heat rushed to Sutton's head, leaving her dizzy. Worst of all, beneath her disorientation, she wasn't surprised. Loathing welled up, twisting her insides, making it hard to speak.

“You can understand, now, why I didn't come forward.” Celeste's voice was barely above a whisper. “And Sutton, I'm not the only one. Two other women that I know of were impregnated by your father, and blackmailed in similar ways.”

Two more? Sutton swallowed hard, willing her autonomic nervous system to release its grip on her senses. She did not need to fight or flee. She needed to think.

“At first, I was the only one who wanted to tell you,” Celeste continued. “But as more and more women spoke up, my—my associates began to soften. And when we saw you standing there, supporting him, caught up against your will in something you don't fully understand … we thought you deserve to know the truth.”

“What are you planning to do?” Sutton managed to force the words out. Beneath the ringing in her ears, her voice sounded hoarse.

“Nothing. We—”

“Nothing?” Sutton leaned forward, incredulous. “You honestly expect me to believe that?”

Celeste was surprisingly unruffled by her vehemence. “If you don't believe me now, you will with time. I don't have an agenda. None of us can, by necessity. I will not be coming after your father with a lawsuit. I have no desire to risk my marriage or my husband's career. But neither could I stand to maintain my silence.”

“Then what would you have
me
do?”

Celeste smiled ruefully, her eyes sad. “There's nothing you can do but keep our secret. None of us are judging you, of course. We understand what you need to do for your mother. But perhaps, now that you know the full story, you'll be better equipped to help her in the long run. And yourself, as well.”

She glanced down at her watch. “I should go. My husband is returning home from D.C. tonight.” Reaching across the table, she briefly touched Sutton's hand as she slipped a twenty dollar bill into her fingers. “For the drink. Thank you for listening.”

As Celeste put on her coat, Sutton suddenly needed to know one thing. “Celeste … have you had any success? Getting pregnant since then?”

Her hands froze on the collar of her coat before moving down to fasten the buttons. “Not yet.” She looked up to meet Sutton's eyes. “But we'll keep trying for a few more years. Good night, Sutton. Take care.”

“Good night,” Sutton said to her retreating back. She watched Celeste thread through the tables and hurry out into the night. As the door closed behind her, Sutton raised her glass to her lips and drained its contents, welcoming the warmth of the alcohol in her roiling stomach. Its burn echoed the anger sluggishly churning in the back of her brain.

What was she going to do, now that she knew the truth? How should she counsel her mother? And what about her own plans? Could she trust anything her father said? Should her priority be to maintain a united front with him for her mother's sake? Or should she try to get as far away from him and his lies as possible?

As she looked out the window toward the streaming headlights crisscrossing Houston, she missed Jane more than ever. Jane had been more than a lover—she had been a sounding board and confidante. She could have told Jane this news without ever fearing that it would come back to haunt her.

But no—she couldn't seek Jane out now without offering her something in return, and at this point, Sutton still had no idea what she was capable of giving. She had chosen to handle this alone, and now she would have to live with that choice.

 

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

S
UTTON WATCHED HER MOTHER
scrutinize the tray of hospital food, smothering a smile at the look of profound suspicion she was directing at the green Jell-O—as though it might jump out of the plastic cup and bite her.