As she walked through the glass doors of New York Presbyterian Hospital, toward the back elevator that would take her to the permanent care unit, Schuyler wondered how many days, how many nights, how many birthdays, how many Thanksgivings and Christmases, she had spent walking down the same fluorescent-lit hallways, with the smell of antiseptic and formaldehyde, walking by the sympathetic smiles of the nurses, by the tearful groups huddled near the surgical waiting rooms, their faces drawn and anxious.
How many times?
Too many to count. Too many to mention. This was her entire childhood, right in this medical center. The housekeeper had taught her to walk, to talk, and Cordelia had been there to pay the bills. But she'd never had a mother. There had been no one to sing her songs in the bath, or to kiss her on the forehead to sleep. No one to keep secrets from, no one to fight over her wardrobe with, no one to slam doors on, there had been none of the normal rhythms of softness and disagreements, the infinite ways of mother-daughter kinship.
There was only this.
"You're here so quickly," the attending nurse said with a smile from the nurses? station. She escorted Schuyler down the hallway to the private wing, where New York's most privileged and most vegetative slumbered.
"She's been waiting for you. It's a miracle. The doctors are beside themselves." The nurse lowered her voice. "They say she might even be on television?"
Schuyler didn't know what to say. It still did not seem true. "Wait. I need... I need to get something from the caf¨¦teria." And she ducked away from the nurse's side and ran down the entire flight of stairs to the first floor. She burst through the swinging door, surprising a few interns sneaking a coffee break on the hidden landing.
She wasn't sure if she would be able to do this. It seemed too good to be true, and she couldn't bring herself to face it. She wiped the tears from her eyes and walked inside the cafeteria.
She bought a bottled water and a pack of gum, and returned to the right floor. The kind nurse was still waiting for her.
"It's okay," she told Schuyler. "I know it's a shock. But go on. It'll be okay. She's waiting for you."
Schuyler nodded. 'thank you," she whispered.
She walked down the hallway. Everything looked exactly the same as it always did. The window looking over the George Washington Bridge. The whiteboard charts with the patients' names, medications, and attending physicians. Finally she stood in front of the right door. It was open just a crack, so that Schuyler heard it.
A voice, lilting and lovely through the doorway. Calling her name ever so softly.
A voice she had only heard in her dreams.
The voice of her mother.
Schuyler opened the door and walked inside.
ER 49
Mimi
Outside the window the sun was rising over the Hudson. Mimi shrugged on a robe, swinging her legs off the bed so she could take a better look. Or so she just told him. She felt... confused. And she didn't like it. She patted the pockets of the robe for her cigarettes, then remembered she had quit smoking. Somehow chewing gum wasn't the same. She would have to console herself with a tapping of her fingers on the glass. Outside, the sky was a brilliant red and orange, the purple darkness and the yellow of the smog mixing with the horizon. But Mimi was bored with a picture of a pretty sunrise, or even sunsets, for that matter: she found them clich¨¦d, hokey, predictable. Anyone could like a sunset. And she wasn't anyone; she was Mimi Force.
"Come back here."
Half invitation, half command.
She turned. Kingsley Martin was lying on the bed, his arms crossed behind his head. Arrogant bastard. Rio had been a mistake. The torrent of emotions after coming so close to the Watcher, only to have her slip away... the two of them had met up later that night at their hotel. Well. What's done was done. She couldn't change that.
She had been far from home and feeling low. But she had no excuse for the last twenty-four hours. Okay, so after Kingsley had told her his whole sad, terrible story, and shared the burden of his secret, they had closed down the bar downstairs, and then everything had felt inevitable after that. Hooking up once was a mistake. Twice? Twice was a pattern. The Mandarin Oriental was one of Mimi's favorite places to stay, and the one in New York was especially lovely. If only she could convince herself she was here to enjoy the view.
"Well? I'm waiting," his silky voice announced.
"You think you can order me around?" she said, throwing her hair over her shoulders: a practiced move that she made appear unrehearsed. She knew he found the sight of her hair swinging over her back enticing. "I know I can."
She moved closer. "Who do you think you are, anyway?"
Kingsley only yawned. He tugged at the edge of her robe, pulling it halfway off her shoulders, before she stopped him. "What's wrong?" he asked.
"I'm getting bonded in two weeks, that's what's wrong," she snapped, belting her robe tightly around her waist. She had asked him that night in Rio if this had happened between them before. And she had asked him again last night. If they had ever been together... if... if... if... Of course Kingsley refused to answer. He had been maddening. Do your exercises, he had said. Do your regressions. He had teased and mocked her and refused to answer her question.
If it had happened before, I could forgive myself, she thought. Maybe this is my one weakness. Maybe he is my weakness.
"Can I ask you something?" Mimi asked, watching as Kingsley got dressed and walked over to the little dining table. Kingsley had ordered a breakfast suited for a king. Not just the usual plate of eggs and bacon. There was also a seafood platter on ice, a full tin of caviar, toast points, chives, sour cream, and chopped onions. A golden bottle of Cristal was sweating in a wine bucket.