Garden of Lies (57 page)

gooder in their eyes, did they only want to steal her purse?

But now she thought with a smile,
This is my planet.
She waved to a woman sitting on a

grungy stoop with a stroller parked beside it. Anita Gonzalez. Seven months ago, she’d delivered

that baby now in the stroller. A difficult pregnancy, she remembered. And at the end of it a little

shrimp of a thing, all black hair and not much else. But now he looked big, healthy, popping right

out of his clothes. Rachel’s heart lifted.

The wail of an ambulance siren broke through her thoughts.

Soon she found herself at the entrance of a huge, ugly brick building. Spray-painted red letters

alongside the big glass doors read: MARIO GET FUCKED. Someone had also pried off most of

the brass letters that once had spelled ST. BARTHOLOMEW’S HOSPITAL. What was left was

ST. BAR, and then a red F scrawled beside it. ST. BARF.

Rachel rode the creaky elevator to the sixth floor, jammed between a sleepy-eyed intern and a

cleaning lady with an enormous laundry cart piled high with dirty sheets.

Alma Saucedo was in Ward C, the bed closest to the door. Asleep. Her face like a lovely ivory

cameo, dark hair fanning across the pillow.
Only sixteen,
Rachel thought.
She should be studying

for a history exam, dating boys, going to parties, not having a baby.

Rachel remembered how her heart had gone out to Alma the first time she had shown up at the

clinic. A shy, pretty girl wearing a navy-blue school jumper that had grown too tight. After the

examination, which showed her to be about four months pregnant, the whole tearful story came

tumbling out. Her first boyfriend. He’d said he loved her. And he
promised
nothing would

happen. Now he wanted nothing to do with her. She didn’t want the baby, either, but her parents

would not allow an abortion. They were Catholics, and killing it would be a mortal sin.

Now, four months later, it looked as if this baby might be killing Alma.

[345] Rachel glanced at the chart. Blood pressure up from this morning: 140 over 110. Edema

unchanged despite the magnesium sulfate. Alma was getting lactated Ringer’s solution, but her

urine output was way down.
Damn. I’ll have to induce soon if she doesn’t improve. I could lose

them both, Alma and the baby. Tomorrow morning, as soon as I see those blood results ...

“Doctor Rosenthal! Oh, I’m so glad you came!”

Rachel, startled, saw Alma was awake. She looked upset. Tears welling in her sleep-puffy

brown eyes, then running down her cheeks.

Rachel sat down on the edge of the bed, taking Alma’s hand. “Feeling pretty rotten, huh?”

“That man,” she whispered, so low Rachel had to bend close to hear. “Please ... don’t let him

touch me again.”

Had Alma been dreaming? “What man?” Rachel asked.

“A doctor, I don’t know his name. Tall and ... well, some girls would say, good-looking.” She

screwed up her face; clearly, she didn’t share that opinion. “He came with a bunch of doctors, just

a little while ago. ...”

Rachel nodded. “Evening rounds. It’s routine.”

“No, no.” Alma shook her head. “He ... he wasn’t like the other doctors. Not just ... you know,

examining me. He was so
cold.
Like I was something for sale in a store. The way he
touched
me.

I felt so—” She buried her face in her hands, and spoke through her fingers, a hollow choked

sound. “He didn’t even ask. He just pushed my legs apart and ... and ... in front of
everyone ...

with that metal thing ... all the time talking about me as if I wasn’t there ... oh God, I wanted to

die
.”

Rachel felt anger like a coal burning in the pit of her stomach.
Bastard. I’d like to string him up

by his thumbs, whoever he is. Better yet, turn a sadistic proctologist loose on him.

It was a subtle war she fought every day, against the insensitive doctors who treated patients

with as much concern as the cadavers they dissected in medical school. Less, even.

Especially here, on the labor and delivery ward. The general assumption among the intern and

resident staff seemed to be that any woman who got herself pregnant deserved to have her

privates on display like apples and bananas on a grocer’s shelf.

I’ll speak to Dr. Townsend about it,
she thought.
His mind wanders,
[346]
but his heart’s in the

right place. Let him do one last bit of good here before he retires.

Then she caught herself, remembering that Harry Townsend
had
retired. There had been a

party, which she hadn’t been able to attend. But who had taken his place? She recalled hearing

several names mentioned as possibilities, no one she knew. And hadn’t there been talk of luring

over some big shot from Presbyterian?

She gave Alma’s hand a gentle squeeze, then handed her a tissue from the box on the enamel

nightstand. The crack in Rachel’s heart widened as she watched Alma dutifully honk into the

tissue. Was this how a mother felt? Wanting to give comfort, but helpless to do much more than

dole out Kleenex?

A mother. Dear Lord, that’s exactly what I’ll be if I’m pregnant.

Her heart leapt for one wild moment.

If only she knew for sure.

Rachel took a deep breath. “Look, Alma, I know what you’re going through. Everything feels

uncomfortable right now, and the last thing you want is a lot of doctors poking at you. But

believe me, the only reason you’re here is so we can help you, and your baby. Now, try and get

some sleep. I’ll be back with you first thing in the morning.”

Alma nodded, then snatched her hand, gripping it hard, as she was about to go. “Promise me,

Doctor Rosenthal.
Promise
me no one else will deliver my baby. I don’t want anyone but you.”

Rachel paused, torn. How could she make such a promise? Nine chances out of ten, she
would

deliver Alma’s baby. But what if something happened, if she were detained ...

Rachel opened her mouth to reassure Alma, tell her there were other doctors who were good,

maybe better. But the look of raw, anguished appeal on Alma’s face stopped her. To diminish

Alma’s confidence now, when she needed it the most, might do the girl more harm than a

promise that might not be kept.

“I promise,” she said.

She saw light showing under the door marked CHIEF OF OBSTETRICS AND

GYNECOLOGY. Well, whoever had replaced Harry, he was a go-getter, staying this late.

[347] Rachel knocked lightly.

“Come in,” a voice called distractedly.

Rachel pushed open the door, and stepped in, eager to meet his replacement.

She saw a head bent over the desk, tousled blond hair gleaming in the hard circle of light cast

by a tensor lamp, a pair of muscular forearms resting against an open folder, shirtsleeves rolled to

the elbow. Then the head lifted, and Rachel found herself staring into a pair of weary green eyes.

Rachel blinked, thinking she must be overtired, imagining things. After all these years ... oh

dear God,
him.

David Sloane. A little older, a fair bit heavier, and still handsome ... but not pleasantly so.

There were sags under his eyes, and an unhealthy bloated look to his face. Rather than aging

gracefully, naturally, he appeared to be spoiling, like a fallen fruit left to rot.

She went cold for an instant, as if all the blood had been drained from her. Another David

flashed across the screen of her memory, a younger one in a white jacket, holding a curette in his

trembling hand.

But she quickly wiped away that image. Ancient history, she told herself. Now that they were

both in the same field, sooner or later their paths were bound to cross.

Awkward situation, but I’ll just have to make the best of it.

She watched him push out of Townsend’s ancient swivel chair, and rise to greet her. “Well,

hello there.” He switched on a smile as bright as a spotlight.

Rachel put out her hand, forced a smile, feeling oddly detached, as if she were standing outside

herself, a puppeteer pulling strings, making her mouth move.

“Hello, David. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Last I heard, you were at Presbyterian. There was a

rumor they were considering someone from there, but I never dreamed it was you.”

“Last I heard—” he tossed the ball back at her, “
you
were off in the jungle somewhere playing

Dr. Schweitzer. Well, it’s nice to see you made it back in one piece. You look wonderful,

Rachel.”

“So do you.”

Not true at all, she thought. He looks awful, like a caricature of his old pretty-boy self. Like

Dean Martin on talk shows, [348] baggy-eyed and boozy, but ever the charming playboy. God,

how could she ever have thought she was in love with this man?

“I’d invite you to sit down,” he said, “but as you can see ...” He gestured toward the half-filled

cardboard cartons by the door. Messy stacks of books and folders were piled on every chair

except his own. “I’m in the midst of cleaning house. Harry Townsend was quite a pack rat. Saved

everything from matchbooks to twenty-year-old autopsy reports. Ran the department pretty much

the same slipshod way. So it looks like I’m going to have my work cut out for me here.”

“Well, St. Bart’s is not exactly Presbyterian. But I’ve been around a while, my clinic is in the

neighborhood, so if I can help with anything ...”

Won’t hurt to brown-nose a little. Stay on his good side. He could just as easily make it rough

for me here.

“Tell you what,” he said, switching on again that klieg-light grin, “I was just getting ready to

cash it in for the night. Why don’t we duck out for a quick drink somewhere? Give us a chance to

catch up. Kick around any ideas you might have for airing out this morgue. What do you say?”

No,
Rachel thought.
The last place I’d want to be is with David in some bar, shooting the

breeze.

But then, on the other hand, if she refused ... well, he might take it the wrong way. And the

ugly fact was, she could not afford to alienate him. She was not on staff here, only surgical

privileges. And privileges could be revoked. Besides, how much could it hurt?

“Love to,” she lied, “but I really will have to make it a quick one. I was expected home an hour

ago.”

Already he was reaching for his jacket—suede, very expensive, hip—and hooking it one-

fingered over his shoulder, as if he were James Dean. Rachel felt tempted to laugh.

“Home to hubby?” There was a snide edge lurking behind that smile, but she’d already decided

to be diplomatic even if it killed her.

She arranged her face into what she hoped was a pleasant expression. “As a matter of fact, yes.

And you? Married?”

“Who me? No, not yet. I still like playing it loose. A wife would just get fed up with me. Know

what I mean?” He took her arm, guiding her out the door, and she had to struggle with herself to

keep from snatching it away. “So, yeah, I guess you could say I [349] lucked out that way. I guess

I must prefer hard labor to life imprisonment.” He chuckled a little at his own joke.

Rachel shriveled inside. She saw the light glint off something bright around his neck. A gold

chain. Oh God, had she really agreed to have a drink with this creep?

There was something else, too, besides his macho humor, nagging at the back of her mind.

Yes, something to do with Presbyterian. Her old friend Celia Kramer, an OB nurse on staff there,

had mentioned something about David a while back. Some sort of scandal? But what? Oh well, it

would come to her eventually.

She flashed the brightest smile she could muster. “Well, I guess we can’t all be lucky.”

“Just where is this place you’re taking me?” Rachel asked, her stomach tightening as their cab

turned down yet another narrow Village street.

She was wishing now she had not let him talk her out of Gordo’s, the bar across the street from

St. Bart’s. It was seedy, the TV sometimes got too loud, but she knew a lot of the regulars there.

“A quiet place,” David answered, “where we can talk. I get all the local color I can stomach at

St. Bartholomew’s. Don’t worry, we’re almost there.”

Worried? Why should I worry? We’re just two colleagues going out for a drink after work.

Sure, we dated once upon a time. And you knocked me up, but ...

The cab was stopping, David paying the driver, getting out. A nice neighborhood, she saw.

Trees, a row of old brick houses with freshly painted trim, a nicely dressed couple out walking

their dog. Houses, but no bars ...

“David ...” She turned back toward the cab, but a pair of transvestites in evening gowns were

already climbing into it.

“I wanted to show off my new place,” David explained a little sheepishly. “Just moved in last

month. I really scored, even if it is a walk-up. Come on, don’t look like that, it’s only two flights.

And it’s quiet, we can talk.”

She felt reluctant, though she couldn’t exactly say why. “Okay, but really I can only stay a few

minutes.”

More than an hour later, Rachel sat wedged in a corner of [350] David’s white leather sofa, her

drink resting on one knee, forming a damp circle on the blue corduroy of her skirt. Twice she had

already told him she had to leave, and each time David had insisted she stay and have just one