Wonders Never Cease (33 page)

Matt stopped. “I wasn't sure I'd be welcome.”

“I could use some company.” She patted the sofa beside her.

Matt walked over and sat down. “How are you holding up?”

“I've been better.”

“Any word yet?”

“There never is. Surgeons don't like to give preliminary reports—it just gets your hopes up when things could still go wrong. That makes the bad news worse.”

“Nothing will go wrong,” Matt said. “Leah will be fine.”

“Promise? I work here, don't forget. I've made that promise to families a thousand times—sometimes I was right, sometimes I was wrong.”

They sat together in silence for a few minutes.

“I'm sorry,” Natalie whispered.

He looked at her. “Sorry for what?”

“You were right, Matt—Leah did need an MRI. I didn't want to hear that. I just wanted to hear that everything was all right. Weird, isn't it? I wanted my daughter to be all right so much that I almost killed her.”

“Don't talk like that,” Matt said. “You wanted the best for her, that's all, and nobody knew what the best thing was. We were all just guessing.”

“Armantrout knew. He suggested the MRI right away. If I hadn't agreed to that MRI they never would have found her tumor. Who knows how big it would have gotten before we found it some other way? By then it might have been too late. Armantrout was right. You know something, Matt? I think that bothers me more than anything else—he was right. He was arrogant, and rude, and heartless—but he was right. He may have saved Leah's life.”

“He didn't save Leah's life,” Matt said. “An angel did.”

“What?”

“I've been thinking about it a lot, Natalie—I was up most of the night. Armantrout recommended the MRI, but the only reason he recommended an MRI was because Leah thought she was seeing angels. Do you see what I'm getting at? If it wasn't for what she saw, none of this would have happened.”

“But what if it was all in her head?”

“When I couldn't sleep last night I looked up
temporal lobe
epilepsy
. . . It's true, sometimes it makes people see auras or bright lights, but they're usually just vague sensations. Leah saw a man and a woman, and both of them were doing something very specific—holding out their hands like this, remember?” He held out his hand palm-down. “Does that sound like a ‘vague sensation' to you? Are we supposed to believe that a tumor pressing against a bunch of neurons would cause her to hallucinate in that kind of detail—twice?”

“But what about the third time—the blinding light?”

Matt shrugged. “I don't know. I can't explain that. I'm just saying there's another possibility, that's all. Maybe Leah actually saw something—something that was really there.”

“An angel?”

“Why not? People have seen them before—at least, they thought so. And aren't angels supposed to do good deeds? If these really were angels, they started a series of events that helped you find that tumor before it was too late. That sounds like a good deed to me.”

“You really believe Leah saw an angel?”

“I'm not sure if I believe it or not. But you know what?
I'm
willing to
. Maybe Armantrout didn't save Leah's life—maybe an angel did.”

Another hour passed—still no word from the surgeon.

“Can I get you anything?” Matt asked.

“No, thanks,” Natalie said. “I don't want to keep you. Don't you have school today?”

“It's Saturday.”

“Oh, right. I keep forgetting.”

“It doesn't matter. If it was a school day I'd be here anyway. Hey, my star pupil is out sick—what's the point?”

She hooked her arm through his.

“To tell you the truth, Natalie, I was surprised to find you here alone. Where's your—you know—”

“My boyfriend? My significant other? My domestic partner? There's no good name for a man who won't commit to you. His name is Kemp, and he won't be here. He's never been there—not when I needed him.”

“Sorry.”

“I'm not. I threw him out—I told him to pack his bags and get out and never come back. To tell you the truth, I don't know what took me so long. That's why I'm here alone.”

Matt patted her hand. “Who's alone?”

Natalie looked into his eyes and smiled.

43

L
eah opened her eyes and looked up at the recovery room ceiling. It seemed to be spinning a little—the way the sky looked when she jumped off the merry-go-round and lay on her back in the grass. Everything was a little fuzzy; she blinked her eyes and tried to focus better, but it didn't seem to help. Her head ached terribly, and she could feel the bandages pressing her ears against her head like a winter cap. The worst pain seemed to come from the right side; she lifted her hand to touch the spot, but when she did she heard a voice:

“Now, don't do that.”

A wrinkled old face smiled down at her.

“Emmet—what are you doing here?”

“Your momma asked me to look in on you. How you doin', girl?”

“My head hurts.”

“They got it wrapped up real good. You look like a big Q-Tip.”

She smiled and it hurt a little more.

“Brought you somethin'.” He held up a Little Debbie cupcake wrapped in plastic; he jiggled it so that it made a crinkling sound. “You take one of these every day and you'll be feelin' up to snuff in no time—doctor's orders. I know you can't eat this just yet, so I'll set it over here.” He set the cupcake beside her on the nightstand.

“I guess I won't be seeing angels anymore,” Leah said.

“No? Why not?”

“They took out part of my head—the part that sees angels.”

“The part that sees angels—what part is that?”

“I don't know. I'm not sure.”

“Don't be silly,” Emmet said. “They didn't take out part of your head, sweetheart—they just took out somethin' that wasn't supposed to be there.”

Leah rested her eyes for a moment. “Where's Mom?”

“You know where she is—where else would she be? Right out there in the waiting room worryin' her heart out and waitin' for you to wake up.”

“Is Kemp with her?”

“I have a feelin' you won't be seein' Mr. Kemp for a while.” He paused. “That okay with you?”

“Yeah. That's okay.”

“Don't you be worryin' about your mom now. She'll be just fine—matter of fact, I saw a very nice man holding her hand when I passed by. Handsome fella too.”

“Who?”

“I'll let you find that out for yourself. I should go now—I can see you need your rest. Just thought I'd stop by and lift your spirits a bit.”

“Emmet.”

“Yes?”

“You think I'll still see angels?”

“You never can tell. If you do, I wouldn't be ashamed to say so.”

“Maybe I wasn't supposed to tell,” Leah said. “The angels told me to
shhh
.”

“Maybe they were just tryin' to warn you,” Emmet said. “Life's not easy for folks who see angels these days—I doubt it ever was.”

“Will you come and see me again?”

“Anytime you want. All you got to do is ask.”

“Thanks,” she whispered, and almost before the word left her lips she fell asleep.

44

O
livia Hayden stared out the floor-to-ceiling window of Wes Kalamar's office at Vision Press. Behind her, Biederman, Kalamar, and Kemp McAvoy sat three-in-a-row on a sofa with their sorry heads hung low. No one had said anything for a long, long time; none of the men had the courage to speak first.

“Nice office,” Hayden said without turning around. “A little shabby, but it's got a decent view. I've got a house up there in the hills, you know.” She glanced back over her shoulder, daring
anyone to reply.

They all stared at the floor.

She turned and planted herself with her fists on her hips like a drill sergeant, staring at the tops of their heads one at a time. “Let me see if I understand all this,” she said in a low and even tone. “There never was an angel. No vision—no message from beyond—no ‘chosen one'—no special calling.”

“I think you're very special,” Biederman said. “I've always said so.”

“Shut up, Morty.”

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

“So my ‘vision'—the three of you just made the whole thing up. You manufactured it out of thin air.”

“We put in some long nights,” Biederman said. “Wes is very good at—”

“Shut
up
, Morty.”

“Sorry.”

She stepped in front of Kemp. “You—you're the one who came up with this whole idea. What are you, anyway, some kind of Nazi doctor?”

“I'm not a doctor,” Kemp mumbled. “I'm a nurse.”

“A
nurse
? What did you think you were doing screwing around with my head?”

Kemp didn't answer.

She stepped in front of Wes Kalamar next. “And you're the publisher. No wonder you got the book done so fast. I thought you must be some kind of boy wonder, but you just had a cheat sheet—you got the notes in advance.”

Then it was Biederman's turn.

“And you, you little parasite. I guess I shouldn't be surprised at you. You've been sucking my blood for twenty years—why should you change now? A vulture doesn't turn vegetarian overnight.”

When she turned away Biederman quietly rose to his feet and cleared his throat. “I'd like to say something, if I may.”

Kemp and Wes stared up at him in disbelief.

“I know you're upset, sweetheart, and believe me, none of us blame you. You've called me a parasite, and a lesser man might be offended at this. But the truth is, that's precisely what an agent is—a parasite. I live off of you. If you succeed, I succeed; if you starve, I starve. As you so colorfully put it, I suck your blood. If someone cuts me, I bleed—but remember, sweetheart, when I bleed it's
your
blood I bleed.”

“Morty, can I interrupt?”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

“Are you out of your freaking mind? What are you babbling about?”

“I took advantage of you, agreed—we all did. But you need to remember that I did it for your own good.”

“For
my
good!”

“I saw a business opportunity here—an opportunity for you to take on a role you might not otherwise consider.”

“Yeah—like the alcoholic mother in
Lips of Fury
.”

“On the contrary—this role had dignity, it had stature. Now tell the truth: Haven't you enjoyed playing the role of visionary, of prophetess, of spiritual mentor to an entire generation? You had a conversation with an angel—now everyone wants to know what you think.”

“But it didn't happen, Morty. It was all just a role.”

“Is that so different for you?”

She looked at him. “What are you getting at?”

“You're an actress, sweetheart. You're paid to play a role; you play the role, and when you go home at night you set the role aside. It's what you've been doing for twenty years. Is this role really so different? Harrison Ford did a fourth Indiana Jones movie at the age of sixty-five. Why? Because he enjoys the role, and because he couldn't afford not to—the franchise is a gold mine. Your situation is no different. You have a very profitable role here; do you really want to give it up?”

She paused. “You're saying I should keep playing this role?”

“The question isn't whether the vision really happened or not. The question is, ‘Do you enjoy this role?' and ‘Is it profitable?'”

“You mean profitable for you.”

“I don't eat unless you eat. I'm a parasite, remember?”

Wes saw where Biederman was headed and joined in. “Biederman's got a point, Ms. Hayden. I apologize for the past, but let's look to the future. It's already done—the book, the publicity campaign, even your own promotional tour. The question isn't whether you want to play the role; the question is, ‘Why shouldn't I get paid for a role I already played?' There's money in this—big money—if we all just keep our heads here.”

Hayden seemed lost in thought. “Prophetess. Visionary. I could get used to that. No more crash diets; no more tummy tucks; no more push-up bras from the Spanish Inquisition.” She looked over at Wes's desk. “Is that an Interstuhl Silver?”

“It sure is,” Wes replied. “Have a seat—give it a try.”

She did, slowly rocking back and forth and caressing the arms. She looked up at Biederman. “What about the fiasco at that book signing yesterday—when this moron tried to do a swan dive on top of me? That made the evening news.”

Biederman shrugged. “An avid fan tries to touch the prophetess. That was terrific publicity, sweetheart—we should have planned it.”

Now Wes rose to his feet too, his enthusiasm growing. “What Biederman is saying is that everything's still going according to plan. We can pick up right where we left off.” He paused. “That is, if you say so.”

Biederman smiled. “Think about it, Liv. A second book—maybe a third. And let's not forget the movie.”

Hayden swiveled back and forth in her chair. “You really think you can sell the film rights to this?”

“Studios are calling
me
, sweetheart. They're hungry.”

“I would star, of course.”

“Whatever you say.”

She looked at Wes. “This second book—would I have to write it?”

“I can handle everything. Production, editing, cover design—you wouldn't have to lift a finger. All you'd have to do is sit down for a chat with Oprah from time to time.”

“I like Oprah,” Hayden said thoughtfully. “I think we've bonded.”