“C’mon, Doc,” Mulroney said. “You don’t have to sugar coat it for me--give it to me straight.”
“We’ll get married tonight,” Vickie said. “At midnight, right here in the chapel. Mulroney won’t even have to dress--they can wheel him to the altar in his robe and slippers.”
“No,” Vickie said. “He’s strong enough. We’ll get married tonight. Hey, all he has to do is slip on a tux and walk from his room to the chapel. It can’t be that much of a strain.”
The doctor stared at her as though she was some new kind of animal she’d never seen before.
“Can you get us permission to use your chapel?”
Lerner smiled. “I like the idea,” she said. “I’ll make the arrangements.”
“Here’s the name and number of my wedding coordinator,” Vickie said, handing Lerner a card.
“Aren’t we rushing things a bit?” Mulroney said.
“I mean it,” Vickie said. “We can condense everything. Mulroney, you need to call your priest and have him meet us here at midnight.”
“Are you sure this is wise?” Mulroney said.
“What’s wisdom got to do with this? I’ve made up my mind,” she said. “I love you, Mulroney. I want to be your wife. I want the pleasure and happiness it will bring. Because we’re in no position to march down some church aisle doesn’t mean the timing isn’t right. Doctor Lerner, I swear on my life right now, by the time you wheel Mulroney into that operating room tomorrow, he’s going to be married.”
The doctor twiddled with her pen, first looking at him, then at her. “We don’t want to put too big a strain on Mulroney--perhaps you’d better hold off on the wedding until after he recovers.”
“He’s got a tough afternoon ahead,” Lerner said. “He’s going to be exhausted by midnight.”
“I’ll be okay,” Mulroney said. “Don’t get us wrong, Doc. We’re working a little bit outside the box, is all.”
“I have my reservations,” the cardiologist said. “But I’ll have my head of housekeeping work things out with your wedding coordinator. If you two want to act like a couple of moonstruck fools, well, I think that’s great. But remember--Mulroney can’t eat or drink anything after. And it goes without saying all the other traditional marriage rituals will have to wait until he’s recovered from his surgery--do I have to spell that out?”
“Thank you for understanding, Doctor Lerner,” Vickie said. “And after all, is it so strange? Just because we’re at the age where we’re no longer ruled by torrential hormones, we still have love and passion.”
There was nothing more to say about it, and nobody had much enthusiasm to keep it going. It was no time for small talk.
“I’ll be going,” Vickie said. “I’ve got a lot to do before midnight.”
“You’ll be okay?” Mulroney said.
“Of course I will, you big fool,” she said. “Walk me to the elevator.”
At the elevator bay, he said, “Are we doing the right thing?”
“What,” she said, “you want to spend the last few hours before your surgery analyzing this? Listen to me. Sooner is better than later.”
“This wasn’t the way I planned to do this,” he said, “but here.” He handed her a small black velvet box. She flipped open the hinged lid and was greeted by the eye-popping rainbow sparkle of a hefty diamond solitaire, easily better than three carats, it’s depths swept in a storm of blue fire, putting the thing into the category of the very finest available anywhere, at any time.
“It’s not the Crown Jewels or anything,” he said.
“Shut up and put it on my finger,” she said. He slipped it on her and she felt the power of the rainbow flashes inside the stone carrying his love deeper and deeper into her heart. “I have no words,” she said.
“I also thought you might like these,” he said. Another box, like the first, but bigger. She gasped. A pair of tiny golden peacock earrings, encrusted with diamonds and rubies, their flashing tails curving downward. The birds seemed to move as she turned the box , her eyes captured by the arresting display of scintillating rays.
“How did you know?” she said.
He stared at her without understanding.
“How did you know to match the peacocks on my bridal gown?”
Still no understanding in his eyes, the beginnings of puzzlement forming around his mouth. He knew nothing of the peacocks on her dress. His choice had been entirely arbitrary.
“It’s fate,” she said.
“I better get going,” he said.
“Wait,” she said. She entered his arms and they gave themselves to a kiss, a brief one, as though marking the spot where they’d return later to complete the job. “I love you,” she said. “You know that, don’t you?”
“I better get going,” he said. “Before Lerner decides to re-classify me as a training dummy for her students.” He turned and slowly tread down the hall towards his date with the team of technicians who were planning, in the morning, to stop his heart in order to rebuild it. She watched him until he rounded the corner.
“It’s fate, my love,” she said. “it’s fate.”
Chapter 13
In the elevator, now alone, descending slowly to the lobby, Vickie began to cry, the tears rolling down her face. The doors parted and she stepped out into the main lobby and stood there beside the elevator without going anywhere, oblivious to the people around her. In the shadow of Mulroney’s life-threatening operation, she saw her desire to cling to him for what it was--dreams and smoke. In spite of this, she felt the fierceness of her desire to join her soul with Mulroney’s at the altar.
“Are you all right?”
She blinked. The voice belonged to a young girl who was waiting for the elevator.
“I noticed you were crying,” she said. “I wondered if you were all right.” The girl was holding a bouquet of flowers. She was dressed in hospital pastels and was maybe nineteen.
“Is anybody all right in this place?” Vickie said. “I left my fiancé up there--I guess you could say that all the love, protection and loyalty in my life vanished with the push of an elevator button. I’m afraid he won’t live through his operation tomorrow.”
“Don’t worry,” the girl said. “And don’t give up on life too easily--it’s the persistent soul who finds healing.”
“You’re very wise for one so young,” Vickie said.
“You look like you could use these,” the girl said, handing her the flowers. The elevator opened and the girl stepped in. The doors glided shut and the girl was gone. A random act of kindness.
While examining the flowers--center-most of which was a brilliant golden Dahlia--Vickie took stock of herself. She wasn’t hungry, but she’d eaten almost nothing the entire day. She made her way to the cafeteria, where a server tong’d a few pieces of fried chicken onto her plate. The room was filling up as the dinner hour approached, but she managed a table by herself next to one where five doctors were chowing down without utensils or shame on their chicken, the performance impressively unselfconscious. She attempted to follow suit and soon found herself completely nauseated by the chicken, the kind of nausea which signaled the eater to a full stop. She steeled herself against the disturbing wave, feeling the sweat begin to run down the small of her back. The sights and sounds of food were all around her, making the wave stronger and stronger. If she couldn’t control it, she was going to heave right in the middle of the cafeteria.
One of the doctors from the table beside hers was staring at her, looking her over for what seemed like a long time before he returned to his plate of chicken, mashed potatoes and honey cakes.
Oh God, Vickie prayed, don’t let me throw up on this table.
A wave of darkness passed across her eyes, obliterating the room. When she tried to shake it off, flashes of color exploded around the edges of her darkened vision. She fought to maintain the rising panic and closed her eyes, feeling the nausea subside against the backdrop of brightly colored spirals vibrating ar
ound the corners of the darkness. A severe pain spread across her forehead. From what seemed far away, she heard someone speaking.
“Do you need help?” A voice above her head and a hand on her shoulder. She opened her eyes. The doctor from the table beside her searched her face. She caught the traces of true compassion shining out from his eyes.
“I’ll be okay,” she said. “But thanks for asking. It’s been awhile since I’ve eaten. I’ve been under a strain. Please, finish your dinner. I’m sorry to have interrupted you.”
“Not at all,” he said, his compassion never wavering, his eyes boring into hers. The other doctors at his table were staring as well.
He knows, Vickie thought. They all know. I’m not fooling anybody here. They’ve all seen my type before. They know where I’m headed.
“I haven’t seen you around here before,” he said.
“I don’t work here, if that’s what you mean,” she answered. “My fiancé’s in for a bypass.”
He nodded. His silence made her uncomfortable, and she babbled foolishly on. “We’re getting married tonight in the chapel before he goes in for his surgery.”
“Congratulations,” he said.
“Since you asked,” Vickie said, “the truth is, I’ve had a bad episode of nausea, and now I’ve got lights sparkling in my eyes and a huge throbbing in my forehead. What do you think’s causing this?”
“Sounds like a migraine,” he said. “Probably from stress. But it wouldn’t hurt to see somebody before you leave here.”
“Thanks,” she said.
She felt comforted by the force of the doctor’s compassion and understood the value of it. Compassion was the substance which defined the essence of the hospital workers, which drew them to this place to play the game of life and death.
The pain in her head signaled for immediate action. She shook out two more Mulroney Specials from her vial and took them with a sip from her water glass.
On the far wall, her gaze was captured by a Picaso print--The Three Musicians. The unreal three figures--composed of hard-edged contours and flat planes of color--seemed to be having a great time playing their instruments. They were supreme in their ugliness--yet that ugliness didn’t stop them from living their lives to the fullest.
The Specials kicked in and the migraine vanished. She was glad for this and found herself enjoying the sensation of being fully present once again in the light and noise of the cafeteria. The doctors at the next table were rising to leave. She caught the eye of the compassionate one.
“Thank you,” she said. He nodded and smiled.
She arose from her seat, picked up her flowers and found her way to the main entrance where her limo driver waited.
“Do you have anybody in your life?” she said.
“Everybody’s got somebody,” he said.
Vickie handed him the bouquet. “These are for that somebody,” she said.
“Thanks,” he said.
“I realized something,” she said. “I realized that compassion is what holds everything together. That’s why I gave you the flowers.”
“Yes ma’am,” he said. “Anyplace special you want to go?”
“Simonson Mercedes,” she said. “And step on it. I want to see the colors before the last of the light is gone.”
“You got it,” he said. The driver wasn’t phased. He was used to the foibles of people who traveled in limousines, people who were in a hurry and wanted to see the colors before it was too late.
Chapter 14
“You’ll never believe this,” Dalk said, “but I just got a major career boost. The Department’s bringing me on board permanently at the pay grade of Sergeant. I left Personnel--they’re putting through the paperwork as we speak. I’m actually going to be a cop--not the normal kind, that drives around in a radio unit, but a cop nonetheless. Wait’ll you see my badge--it’s the real thing, with the image of Parker Center and everything. I’m going to keep it clipped on my belt from now on. Now I can drive as fast as I want, like you.”
Vickie was putting in some quality phone time with Dalk while her limo slowly worked its way through the nearly impenetrable Wilshire Boulevard traffic. Why anybody called it rush hour, she’d never know.
“I knew you had it in you,” Vickie said. “I guess the Department shares my views. I hope you’ll let me buy you a drink tonight at The Lamplighter.”
“I can’t wait to tell Mulroney,” he said.
She didn’t bother to fill him in on the details of the past eight hours, nor mention that Mulroney’s fix with the Department on Dalk’s behalf had apparently been handled with incredible speed. That would be her little secret. “I’ve got a lot of news for you, but I can’t talk now,” she said. “I called because I need you to drop everything and meet me at Simonson Mercedes--they’re on the corner of Wilshire and 17th.”
“I know the place,” he said. “I’ve drooled on their sidewalk a few times. A little too steep for me, even with a sergeant’s pay.”
“How fast can you meet me there?” she said.
“I’ll be there in an hour,” he said.
Her next call caught Dee, her wedding coordinator. “Don’t faint,” Vickie said. “But there’s been a change of plans. The wedding’s at midnight tonight at the UCLA Medical Center chapel. You’ll be getting a call from housekeeping to help you set it up.”
“Okay,” Dee said. “I’m in shock, but I’m still here. It’s 5 o’clock now, that gives me seven hours to pull it off.”
“Can you do it?” Vickie said. In vain she tried to imagine the problems inherent in a request to completely plan a wedding in seven hours involving a dress which cost two-hundred-twenty-five thousand dollars.
“I can do it,” Dee said. “I don’t know the meaning of the word can’t--but we’ll have to improvise on a few things. Listen to me carefully. I’m going to set up a trailer in the parking lot of the Medical Center--the employee lot off Circle Drive south. For this thing to work, I’ll need you there at 10 p.m. sharp along with your best man and maid of honor.”
“Is this a crazy idea?” Vickie said.
“If you can define crazy, then you tell me,” Dee said. “Crazy or not, get ready--you’re getting married.”
The limo pulled into Simonson Mercedes. Vickie stepped out and was greeted by a young woman.
“I’m Kasha,” she said. “You must be Vickie. Your accountant called--we’ve been expecting you.”
“I pictured myself working with an old German guy,” Vickie said. “I’m pleasantly surprised to find a woman working here.”
“Please come with me,” Kasha said. Kasha had a pleasant open face and a long dark braid. She moved with the confidence and poise of a dancer. Vickie knew from experience that Kasha’s outfit, a slick black-and-white Gucci number, was designed to reinforce her role as an advocate for the world-class machinery clustered around them. They stepped into the showroom where a handful of highly polished machines silently and shamelessly displayed themselves.
“I don’t believe in power selling,” Kasha said. “I try to create a space and be supportive. Tell me where you’re coming from and we’ll take it from there.”
“Where I’m coming from is I could use a drink,” Vickie said.
With a head nod, Kasha summoned an assistant from the wings.
“Would it be too much to hope for a martini?” Vickie said.
The assistant departed swiftly on his errand.
“So tell me, Vickie,” Kasha said. “What’s important to you in your driving life?”
“Speed,” Vickie said. “But I’m not sure where to go from there. Right now, I’m on too many levels at once. I’m getting married tonight at midnight. My fiancé’s having a bypass done in the morning. I found out yesterday that I’ve got a pancreatic malignancy to deal with, and I’m buying a new house and selling my old one.”
“I must say,” Kasha admitted, “that’s not the usual answer I get to that question.”
“To fully answer you,
” Vickie said, “the car won’t be for me--it’s for my brother--a sort of farewell present, you might say.”
“You mean, you think there’s some chance your cancer is going to win?” Kasha said.
“There’s a big chance,” Vickie said. “Short of a miracle, I don’t see how I can survive it.”
“Tell me,” Kasha said. “What is your brother like?”
“He’s hard to describe,” Vickie said. “He’s kind of different, the sort of man that some would classify as an underachiever--he’s not your typical L.A. power type. But I think that’s what makes him so special.”
The assistant arrived with the martini--well chilled, with two olives.
“Oh, that’s good,” Vickie said.
“What does your brother do?” Kasha said.
“He’s a martial artist,” Vickie said. “But it’s not as flaky as it sounds. He takes it seriously. He follows the spiritual teachings about respecting life and so forth. He calls it his “journey to simplicity”.”
“Sounds like a threatened species,” Kasha said.
“He’s the type who believes money can’t buy happiness,” Vickie said. “That’s why I’m here. I thought a new car might help him enlarge his boundaries a little bit. I’m his older sister. I guess I feel it’s my responsibility to keep working on him. I thought the car might influence him to try some new directions. I mean, life can’t be all sweat and meditation--once in a while you’ve got to get out and step on the gas!”
“You’re right,” Kasha said. “And you’re in the right place--a Mercedes is so much more than a car--it’s really a kind of mood therapy on wheels.”
“My brother became a cop,” Vickie said. “So he can drive as fast as he wants. Which car here is the fastest?”
Kasha pointed to a silver convertible with black and red leather trim.
A Small Matter Page 7
