"Where's Derald?" she said.
"He didn't make it," said Denise.
When Kim got home, she took out her note pad. She wrote Angela next to the date. There were scores of names. She'd filled five pages. She scanned back a few weeks and found Derald. She drew a little cross by his name, because that's what she did when a baby she'd held died.
She spent four days with Robert in the Cayman Islands. She tried to water-ski. Seven attempts and she still hadn't stood up. She preferred sitting in the boat with the driver drinking Sea Breezes. The hair on his arms was bleached from the sun.
There were other trips: days on a two-hundred-foot yacht, drifting through the Bahamas, nights in Lyford Cay, drinking frozen daiquiris from coconuts, eating vodka-soaked watermelon. She wore a silk scarf and dark wraparound sunglasses to the beach. She could see Robert eyeing the young girls in their thongs.
He seemed to spend more time at the mirror, tying and retying his tie, fussing over the points of his pocket handkerchief, chasing his reflection until pleased. One night, halfway out the door, he noticed a wrinkle in the back of his shirt collar. He stood close to the mirror and then got his reading glasses from the nightstand and inspected himself in the mirror again. Off came everything. He started over. To sit through the process nightly, seeing the excessive, almost effeminate care he took, and then watch him in the presence of a young woman, someone he might never exchange a word with, sit up straighter, become conscious of his hands, hold a door, make eye contact . . .
The night they left port, they opened a rare bottle of wine and left it on the deck table to breathe. Kim sprawled on long blue terry cushions, watching the radar gun at the top of the boat turn in slow, steady revolutions that defied the wind. An anvil of clouds was rising in the east, flattening, and the boat began to slide on the growing swells. She took a pill for her stomach. Robert slid the glass door open.
"The captain says you better come in," he said.
"What about the wine? My stomach's turning."
"Don't drink, then."
"It's such a waste."
"There will always be more. Leave it."
She followed him into the cabin and stayed sitting half the night to keep her head from spinning. She thought about the wine they weren't going to drink, how few bottles of that vintage still existed: the vineyard they came from, gentle faraway hills, dusty wheel-tracked roads slipping between rows of gnarled vines. She pictured herself wandering a musty cellar, dark wood barrels lined up like eggs, comforting cold wet pockets of air. The boat's rocking wrenched at her insides.
In the morning, the sky had cleared. Louanne, the mistress of the boat, was already hard at work. The white fiberglass table had been scrubbed down and showed the sun and the pure blue sky like a still-water reflection. She came out onto the deck with a vase of cut flowers and a basket of silverware and napkins and place mats. She had blond boyish hair and wide dimpled cheeks and smiled and said hello. Her white shorts were pleated and heavily starched, cinched with a white canvas belt. Her legs were darkly tanned all the way down to her bare toes. Kim stared at the woman's sturdy calf muscles as they tensed, countering the slow shifting of the deck so naturally. To look at the woman's face, she could see no change, no adjusting, only an unwavering young smile.
Robert stood behind the glass sliding door, his hair unmussed, safe from the blowing wind. He was also staring at Louanne. He held a half-smoked cigarette and watched until the table was set. Then he tightened his robe and came out onto the deck. He flicked the cigarette over the side of the boat.
"I left some shirts on the bed to be ironed," he said.
"I'll see to it," said the mistress. "How do you feel this morning?"
"Better."
He took a seat at the table, straightening his knife and fork.
"Louanne," he added, "be careful with the cuffs and collar. There were wrinkles before."
"I'll be extra careful, sir."
"Well starched."
"The way you did them last time was fine," said Kim. "He's cranky because he's famished."
The mistress took a breakfast menu and a list of the boat's wine stock from her basket and held them out to Kim.
Too many nights on a boat.
On the flight home, a stewardess recognized Kim. The woman's lashes were heavy with mascara. The skin around her lips was soft and powdered. Her hair was piled into a graying bun.
"Kim Reilly, is that you?"
Kim stared blankly.
"Jennifer," the woman said. "Remember?"
She was pushing a drinks cart, holding in her hand a pair of silver tongs for the ice.
"Can I get some coffee?" said a man on the opposite side of the aisle.
She turned her back to the man and bent over Kim, hands between her knees. "I don't believe it. You look fantastic."
She stared Kim up and down, taking in the shoes, peach satin pumps with creamy unscuffed soles. "Wow, are you still in New York?"
Kim nodded.
"I moved back to South Carolina. I just . . . look at you. Can you believe it? I always wondered about you."
Robert was reading. Kim tapped his arm. He lowered a pair of glasses on his nose and shook Jennifer's hand. It was as he readjusted his glasses and turned back to his book that Jennifer must have made the connection.
"The Robert? Did you . . ." Then quickly: "We've come a long way." She was smiling still. "I'm divorced now, but I have the most beautiful seven-year-old boy. He's so smart. He wants to be a pilot when he grows up. I gave him one of those flight simulators for the computer. I can't do the thing, but you should see him. Like he was born with a flight stick in his hand."
Jennifer sneaked a sideways glance at Robert.
"Seven. What grade does that put him in?" said Kim.
"First. He leaves me crayon drawings for when I get home," Jennifer said. "And no matter where I am, we talk on the phone at least once every day."
"Does he look like you?"
"My coffee?" said the man across the aisle.
"Coming." Jennifer whispered, "I only wish I didn't have to spend so much time away."
She took a cup and poured coffee and handed it to the man.
"With milk, please."
"Oh, yes, of course."
She opened a drawer and took out a carton of milk and set to opening the spout.
"They get old so quickly," she said to Kim.
Robert grunted and shifted toward the window.
Kim lowered her voice. "Jennifer, is there any other champagne on board?"
"Just what you're drinking."
"Sometimes there's an extra bottle stashed away, something better, for certain passengers."
Jennifer looked confused. "I don't think so," she said. "At least not on this flight."
When they landed in New York, Kim gave Jennifer her card.
"I haven't seen her in years," she told Robert.
"She could use a face lift," he said.
Kim went to her apartment. Robert went to Nicole. In two days he called Kim from Palm Springs. She got on a plane.
That evening, she sat on the patio with a towel wrapped about her. A grassy slope ran down to a peanut-shaped pool, deck chairs, and tables, shadowy forms like animals come to drink. Sprinklers gurgled, choked, and spluttered on. The fine spray of soft hissing water was the only sound.
She went inside to the study door and listened. She could hear Robert's muffled voice. She turned the knob and peered in. Robert held up a finger without looking. She went back to the patio and watched the moon rise from behind the dark ridge of mountains. Light spilled over the jagged rim of rock, running softly down its face—a new shade of blue. The moon broke free and continued its ascent.
"You're still not dressed?" Robert said. He stood in the door.
"I'm watching the moon."
"Hurry up. I have good news."
"Well?"
"Christine's engaged."
"To that boy?"
"David Winthro
p."
"You approve, don't you?"
"I do."
"You seem calm."
"Let's celebrate."
She tightened the towel about her and reknotted it.
"One more call," he said, turning.
"I thought you were ready to go."
"Go get dressed. I'll be out here on the cell."
"Who do you have to call?"
"I don't ask about your Friday nights."
She didn't say anything.
Where once there had been sandy fields of smoke trees and spiny ocotillo, now there were rows of car dealerships with glaring spotlights and swarms of bugs, big as locusts. Half-vacant stucco mini-malls required parking lots that stretched back from the highway to the foot of the mountains. At last they reached the restaurant. Gold pin lights spiraled up the trunks of the palm trees that lined the curved drive.
Robert ordered margaritas. The glasses came trough-sized and rimmed with salt. A mariachi band crooned "Malagueña." A young clean-shaven man stood at the edge of a fountain strumming a ukulele, his falsetto floating up to the bamboo ceiling. Aged brick and wrought-iron balconies decorated the inside to look like an outdoor courtyard. Kim cradled her drink with both hands.
"You don't seem happy," she said.
"Of course I am."
"You haven't said whether you like my dress."
A waitress took their orders, a light-skinned Mexican with a single long braid bisecting her back.
Robert asked about the shrimp fajitas.
"I thought you were having chicken?" said Kim.
"The chicken is very good," said the waitress. "The shrimp are my favorite. I can bring you some of both—"
"Bring him the shrimp," Kim said. "Apparently he wants the shrimp."
"And for you?"
"Ah, now it's my turn."
The ruffled collar of the woman's dress hung loosely at her chest, the gentle rise of her breasts, more almond skin.
Kim drank without talking. Old plates hung from the wall alongside a photograph of a bullfight, the matador leaning into the bull's driving shoulder, horns jerking back in an attempt to snag the streaking cape.
Kim went to the rest room. When she returned, the waitress was at their table, Robert smiling wider than he had in years.
It was a relief to be back at the hospital. She put away her handbag and washed up and put on an apron. Hetty met her coming down the hall.
"I have a huge favor to ask you," Hetty said. "One of my volunteers had an emergency and couldn't make it. I need someone to work the cancer ward. Is that a problem for you?"
Kim shook her head.
"It's an older age group."
"That's okay."
"Think now, honey. You can say no."
"It's fine."
"You're a doll."
Hetty chugged back to her office and returned carrying a folder. She was breathing heavily. She briefed Kim in the elevator on the way up. This would be no different from what she'd been doing.
"There's no moving around, though," said Hetty. "You'll be sitting with the same girl the whole shift. Her name is Brittany. She's seven. You wash up. You wear gloves like normal. Her immune system's shot, so the slightest exposure to germs—"
Kim nodded.
"She'll probably sleep the whole time, she's on so much medication. If she wakes up, she may get sick. Don't panic, just ring for the nurse. She may ask you to read to her. That's okay. Try to keep her from talking too much. She gets excited, and that's a strain."
The elevator door opened. The halls were painted a light green, but there were no murals and no sounds of crying. Hetty took her to the nurses' station. The nurse led her to Brittany's room.
"She's sleeping now," said the woman. "Just make yourself comfortable."
The room was filled with colorful balloons and pots of fake flowers, plastic daisies and tulips. Kim scrubbed her hands and arms and slipped on the gloves that had come to feel like a second skin. She looked about the room. There were get-well cards and a poster of a water-soaked kitten. A small painted dresser stood against the wall opposite the bed.
"Mommy puts my clothes in there."
Brittany had raised herself and was looking at Kim. She had no hair. Her scalp was smooth and white with a large brown spot over her left ear. She had no eyebrows. Her eyes were wide.
"She bought me a new dress today. It has a frog on it. The doctors say I can only wear these."
She tugged the sleeve of her gown.
"Mommy doesn't listen. She keeps giving me new clothes. Do you want to see?"
Kim nodded. Brittany pointed for Kim to open the top drawer. Kim found the frog dress neatly folded.
"Can I see?" said Brittany.
Kim held it up, then folded it carefully and put it back. She went to the sink and took off her gloves and rescrubbed her hands. She put on fresh gloves.
"You didn't have to do that," said Brittany.
Her head was resting on the pillow again.
"You're new," she said.
"I'm usually on the floor right below this one."
"Where's Lucy?"
"Is Lucy usually here Friday nights? She couldn't make it tonight, so I'm here."
"That's okay."
Brittany closed her eyes.
"Would you like me to read to you?"
No answer. She'd fallen asleep. Kim sat down in the chair by the bed. There was a little round table covered with books and scattered papers that had been drawn on and covered with scribblings. A pack of crayons lay open.
Kim picked up a book and began to read.
When Brittany woke again, she was sick to her stomach. Kim rang for the nurse, who wheeled in a new bed. Together, they helped get her face cleaned and changed her into a fresh gown. They lifted her into the new bed. She was light as a bird. Instead of changing the linens in front of Brittany, the nurse removed the soiled bed.
"It's nicer that way," the nurse said.
When she'd gone, Kim sat back down.
"Sorry," said Brittany.
"It's okay, darling."
Kim opened the book she'd been reading to her saved place.
"Would you like me to read to you?" she said.
"Which book is that?"
Kim showed her the cover.
"The Wind in the Willows," Brittany said.
"I bet you're a really good reader."
"My daddy says I read on a fourteenth-grade level. Read me the part about the baby otter."
"Which chapter's that?"
"Where Ratty and Mole look for the little missing otter."
Kim found the chapter and began to read. From time to time she'd look up to see if Brittany had fallen asleep. Her eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. The brown spot on the side of her head was shaped like a rain cloud.
When Mole and Ratty finally found the baby otter, he was nestled in the rushes. Pan had shown them the way, and after, he made them forget that they had seen him.
"Who's Pan?" said Brittany.
"He's like God."
"Why does he make them forget?"
"Because he's too beautiful," said Kim.
"So?"
"They might miss him too much."
Brittany's eyelids began to sag. Kim checked her IV bag. It did not need to be refilled yet. She didn't wake up again. Kim read a little more, then put the book down and rubbed her eyes. She looked at some of Brittany's drawings. There was a poem written in wobbly purple block letters:
The sun rises the sun goes
The moon high the grass below
So deep down in my heart I feel your soul in me
And when I feel your soul I think of others. Amen.
In the bottom right corner of the page, an adult, probably Brittany's mother or father, had written Brittany, Fall, and then the year.
It was two in the morning. Kim touched Brittany's forehead. She touched the brown spot on the side of her head, and her shoulder. Then she left.
She added Britt
any's name to her list that night and stayed up to watch the sunrise.
Three days later, she got a call from Hetty. She asked if Kim could attend a staff meeting the nurses were having that afternoon. "Sometimes we invite volunteers," she said. "Their input's important."
Kim agreed to be there. Hetty gave her directions to the nurses' lounge and told her not to be late.
Kim arrived on time, but the meeting was already under way. The room was crowded with nurses, many she'd never seen before. A couple of the women she recognized as volunteers. Ruth was sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup. Hetty was speaking at the far end of the lounge. She saw Kim and nodded. Kim tried to melt into the corner.
"For our last item of business," said Hetty.
Kim wondered if she'd mistaken the time. She'd clearly heard 3 P.M.
"As you all know," Hetty continued, "we have many volunteers on our staff. These people give up their time so that our hospital is a little brighter, a little nicer, so that children and adults get the kind of attention they need, that doctors and nurses can't always give. Every year, we at Saint Vincent's like to recognize the work of one volunteer. This isn't an easy job. It's hard to single out just one person. But this year wasn't so hard. This year's special person is someone I have to admit I had my doubts about. I get a lot of bleeding hearts who come and see me about work, but not all hearts bleed."
"Amen, sister," someone shouted.
"You all know her by her work. She doesn't say much—just helps. She gives more than her time, and that's what we're all here for. This year's award goes to Kim Reilly."
Everyone turned, strange smiling eyes, happy teeth, and clapping hands, a wave of sound that made Kim feel faint. Hetty was calling to her, waving for her to come and accept the award. Everyone reached out to touch her as she passed, patting her shoulders and squeezing her hands. Hetty handed over the plaque with a smile. Kim started to speak. "Shut up," said Hetty. "Don't make me cry." She kissed Kim on the cheek. The plaque read kim reilly—volunteer of the year, with the hospital insignia and the date.
The throng parted to reveal a large rectangular cake.
For half an hour, people kept congratulating her. She didn't know what to say. She smiled so much her face hurt. When it was all over, Hetty gave her a hug.
Because She Is Beautiful Page 20
