Harvest (4 page)

CHAPTER THREE

In the night it came to her like the gentlest of whispers or the brush of fairy wings across her face: I am dying. That realization did not frighten Nina Voss. For weeks, through the changing shifts of three private duty nurses, through the daily visits of Dr. Morissey with his ever-higher doses of furosemide, Nina had maintained her serenity. And why should she not be serene? Her life had been rich with blessings. She had known love, and joy, and wonder. In her forty-six years she had seen sunrise over the temples of Karnak, had wandered the twilight ruins of Delphi and climbed the foothills of Nepal. And she had known the peace of mind that comes only with the acceptance of one's place in God's universe. She was left with only two regrets in her life. One was that she had never held a child of her own.

The other was that Victor would be alone.

All night her husband had maintained his vigil at her bedside, had held her hand through the long hours of laboured breaths and coughing, through the changing of the oxygen tanks and the visits of Dr. Morissey. even in her sleep she had felt Victor's presence. Sometime near dawn, through the haze of her dreams, she heard him say: She is so young. So very young. Couldn't something else, anything else, be done?

Something! Anything!That was Victor. He did not believe in the inevitable.

But Nina did.

She opened her eyes and saw that night had finally passed, and that sunlight was shining through her bedroom window. Beyond that window was a sweeping view of her beloved Rhode Island Sound. In the days before her illness, before the cardiomyopathy had drained her strength, dawn would usually find Nina awake and dressed. She would step out onto their bedroom balcony and watch the sun rise. Even on mornings when fog cloaked the Sound, when the water seemed little more than a silvery tremor in the mist, she would stand and feel the earth tilting, the day spilling towards her. As it did today.

So many dawns have I known. I thank you, Lord, for every one of them.

"Good morning, darling," whispered Victor.

Nina focused on her husband's face, smiling down at her. Some who looked at Victor Voss saw the face of authority. Some saw genius or ruthlessness. But this morning, as Nina gazed at her husband, she saw only the love. And the weariness.

She reached out for his hand. He took it and pressed it to his lips. "You must get some sleep, Victor," she said.

"I'm not tired."

"But I can see you are."

"No I'm not." He kissed her hand again, his lips warm against her chilled skin. They looked at each other for a moment. Oxygen hissed softly through the tubes in her nostrils. From the open window came the sound of ocean waves sluicing across the rocks.

She closed her eyes. "Remember the time..." Her voice faded as she paused to catch her breath.

"Which time?" he prompted gently.

"The day I... broke my leg..." She smiled.

It was the week they'd met, in Gstaad. He told her later that he'd first spotted her schussing down a double black diamond, had pursued her down the mountain, back up in the lift, and down the mountain again. That was twenty-five years ago.

Since then they had been together every day of their lives.

'! knew," she whispered. "In that hospital... when you stayed by my bed. ! knew."

"Knew what, darling?"

"That you were the only one for me." She opened her eyes and smiled at him again. Only then did she see the tear trickle down his lined cheek. Oh, but Victor did not cry! She had never seen him cry, not once in their twenty-five years together. She had always thought of Victor as the strong one, the brave one. Now, as she looked at his face, she realized how very wrong she had been.

"Victor," she said and clasped his hand in hers. "You mustn't be afraid."

Quickly, almost angrily, he mopped his hand across his face. "I won't let this happen. I won't lose you."

"You never will."

"No. That's not enough! I want you here on this earth. With me. With me."

"Victor, if there's one thing... one thing I know..." She took a deep breath, a gasp for air. "It's that this time... we have here... is a very small part... of our existence."

She felt him stiffen with impatience, felt him withdraw. He rose from the chair and paced to the window where he stood gazing out at the Sound. She felt the warmth of his hand fade from her skin. Felt the chill return.

"I'll take care of this, Nina," he said.

"There are things... in this life... we cannot change."

"I've already taken steps."

"But Victor..."

He turned and looked at her. His shoulders, framed by the window, seemed to blot out the light of dawn. "It will all be taken care of, darling," he said. "Don't you worry about a thing."

It was one of those warm and perfect evenings, the sun just setting, ice cubes clinking in glasses, perfumed ladies floating past in silk and voile. It seemed to Abby, standing in the walled garden of Dr. Bill Archer, that the air itself was magical. Clematis and roses arched across a latticed pergola. Drifts of flowers swept broad strokes of colour across the expanse of lawn. The garden was the pride and joy of Marilee Archer, whose loud contralto could be heard booming out botanical names as she shepherded the other doctors' wives from flowerbed to flowerbed.

Archer, standing on the patio with highball in hand, laughed. "Marilee knows more goddamn Latin than I do."

'! took three years of it in college," said Mark. "All I remember is what I learned in medical school."

They were gathered next to the brick barbecue, Bill Archer, Mark, the General, and two surgical residents. Abby was the only woman in that circle. It was something she'd never grown accustomed to, being the lone female in a group. She might lose sight of it for a moment or two, but then she would glance around a room where surgeons were gathered, and she'd experience that familiar flash of discomfort with the realization that she was surrounded by men.

Tonight there were wives at Archer's house party, of course, but they seemed to move in a parallel universe, seldom intersecting with that of their husbands. Abby, standing with the surgeons, would occasionally hear far-off snippets from the wives' conversations. Talk of damask roses, of trips to Paris and meals savoured. She would feel pulled both ways, as though she stood straddling the divide between men and women, belonging to neither universe, yet drawn to both.

It was Mark who anchored her in this circle of men. He and Bill Archer, also a thoracic surgeon, were close colleagues. Archer, chief of the cardiac transplant team, had been one of the doctors who'd recruited Mark to Bayside seven years ago. It wasn't surprising the two men got along so well. Both of them were hard-driving, athletic, and fiercely competitive. In the OR they worked together as a team, but out of the hospital, their friendly rivalry extended from the ski slopes of Vermont to the waters of Massachusetts Bay. Both men kept their J-35 sailboats moored at Marblehead marina, and so far this season, the racing score stood at six to five, Archer's Red Eye versus Mark's Gimme Shelter. Mark planned to even the score this weekend. He'd already recruited Rob Lessing, the other second-year resident, as crew.

What was it about men and boats? wondered Abby. This was gizmo talk, men and their sailing machines, high-tech conversation fuelled by testosterone. In this circle, centre stage belonged to the men with greying hair. To Archer, with his silver-threaded mane. To Colin Wettig, already a distinguished grey. And to Mark who, at forty-one, was just starting to turn silver at the temples.

As the conversation veered towards hull maintenance and keel design and the outrageous price of spinnakers, Abby's attention drifted. That's when she noticed two late arrivals: Dr. Aaron Levi and his wife Elaine. Aaron, the transplant team cardiologist, was a painfully shy man. Already he had retreated with his drink to a far corner of the lawn, where he stood stoop-shouldered and silent. Elaine was glancing around in search of a conversational beachhead.

This was Abby's chance to flee the boat talk. She slipped away from Mark and went to join the Levis.

"Mrs Levi? It's so nice to see you again."

Elaine returned a smile of recognition. "It's... Abby, isn't it?" "Yes, Abby DiMatteo. I think we met at the residents' picnic."

"Oh yes, that's right. There are so many residents, I have trouble keeping you all straight. But I do remember you."

Abby laughed. "With only three women in the surgery programme, we do stick out."

"It's a lot better than the old days, when there were no women at all. Which rotation are you on now?"

"I start thoracic surgery tomorrow."

"Then you'll be working with Aaron."

"If I'm lucky enough to scrub on any transplants."

"You're bound to. The team's been so busy lately. They're even getting referrals from Massachusetts General, which tickles Aaron pink." Elaine leaned towards Abby. "They turned him down for a fellowship years ago. Now they're sending him patients."

"The only thing Mass Gen has over Bayside is their Harvard mystique," said Abby. "You know Vivian Chao, don't you? Our Chief Resident?"

"Of course."

"She graduated top ten at Harvard Med. But when it came time to apply for residency, Bayside was her number one choice." Elaine turned to her husband. "Aaron, did you hear that?" Reluctantly he looked up from his drink. "Hear what?"

"Vivian Chao picked Bayside over Mass Gen. Really, Aaron, you're already at the top here. Why would you want to leave?"

"Leave?" Abby looked at Aaron, but the cardiologist was glaring at his wife. Their sudden silence was what puzzled Abby most. From across the lawn came the sound of laughter, the echoing drifts of conversation, but in this corner of the garden, nothing was said.

Aaron cleared his throat. "It's just something I've toyed with," he said. "You know. Getting away from the city. Moving to a small town. Everyone daydreams about small towns, but no one really wants to move there."

"I don't," said Elaine.

"I grew up in a small town," said Abby. "Belfast, Maine. I couldn't wait to get out."

"That's how I imagine it would be," said Elaine. "Everyone clawing to get to civilization."

"Well, it wasn't that bad."

"But you're not going back. Are you?"

Abby hesitated. "My parents are dead. And both my sisters have moved out of state. So I don't have any reason to go back. But I have a lot of reasons to stay here."

"It was just a fantasy," said Aaron, and he took a deep gulp of his drink. "I wasn't really thinking about it."

In the odd silence that followed, Abby heard her name called. She turned and saw Mark waving to her.

"Excuse me," she said, and crossed the lawn to join him. "Archer's giving the tour of his inner sanctum," said Mark. "What inner sanctum?"

"Come on. You'll see." He took her hand and led her across the terrace and into the house. They climbed the staircase to the second floor. Only once before had Abby been upstairs in the Archer house, and that was to view the oil paintings hung in the gallery.

Tonight was the first time she'd been invited into the room at the end of the hall.

Archer was already waiting inside. In a grouping of leather chairs were seated Drs Frank Zwick and Raj Mohandas. But Abby scarcely noticed the people: it was the room itself that commanded her attention.

She was standing in a museum of antique medical instruments. In display cases were exhibited a variety of tools both fascinating and frightening. Scalpels and bloodletting basins. Leech jars. Obstetrical forceps with jaws that could crush an infant's skull. Over the fireplace hung an oil painting: the battle between Death and the Physician over the life of a young woman. A Brandenburg Concerto was playing on the stereo.

Archer turned down the volume, and the room suddenly seemed very quiet, with only the whisper of music in the background. "Isn't Aaron coming?" asked Archer.

"He knows about it. He'll be on his way up," said Mark.

"Good." Archer smiled at Abby. "What do you think of my little collection?"

She studied the contents of a display case. "This is fascinating. I can't even tell you what some of these things are."

Archer pointed to an odd contraption of gears and pulleys. "That device over there is interesting. It was meant to generate a weak electrical current, which was applied to various parts of the body. Said to be helpful for anything from female troubles to diabetes. Funny, isn't it?The nonsense medical science would have us believe."

Abby stopped before the oil painting and gazed at the black-robed image of Death. Doctor as hero, Doctor as conqueror, she thought. And of course the object of rescue is a woman. A beautiful woman.

The door opened.

"Here he is," said Mark. "We wondered if you'd forgotten about it, Aaron."

Aaron came into the room. He said nothing, only nodded as he sat down in a chair.

"Can I refill your drink, Abby?" said Archer, gesturing to her glass. "I'm fine."

"Just a splash of brandy? Mark's driving, right?"

Abby smiled. "All right. Thanks."

Archer touched up Abby's drink and handed it back to her. The room had fallen strangely quiet, as though everyone was waiting for this formality to be completed. It struck her then: she was the only resident in the room. Bill Archer threw this sort of party every few months, to welcome another batch of house staff to the thoracic and trauma rotations. At this moment, there were six other surgical residents circulating downstairs in the garden. But here, in Archer's private retreat, there was only the transplant team.

And Abby.

She sat down on the couch next to Mark and sipped her drink. Already she was feeling the brandy's heat, and the warmth of this special attention. As an intern, she'd viewed these five men with awe, had felt privileged just to assist in the same OR with Archer and Mohandas. Though her relationship with Mark had brought her into their social circle, she never forgot who these men were. Nor did she forget the power they held over her career.

Archer sat down across from her. "I've been hearing some good things about you, Abby. From the General. Before he left tonight, he paid you some wonderful compliments."