For All Their Lives

by Fern Michaels

  “You’re supposed to be asleep,” Casey admonished quietly.

  “I knew you’d stop in. I stayed awake to say good-bye.”

  “We said good-bye this afternoon,” Casey said softly.

  “That was just good-bye, this is the real good-bye, when no one else is around. I said a rosary for you before so that you would have a safe trip to the United States.”

  “Are you in pain?” Casey said with concern. “Be truthful.”

  “Of course I’m in pain. The pain never leaves me. I wanted to make you feel good, so that’s why I said I waited up for you. I haven’t been reading, I’ve been praying. I don’t want to die, Miss Adams. I’m afraid to die. That old biddy out there doesn’t understand. She’s sixty-eight, you know.”

  “She’s lying to you.” Casey grinned. “She’s sixty-nine. You aren’t going to die and you know it. People don’t die from hip operations. You’ve been here for six weeks, Mrs. Laroux, and have you ever once heard me lie to you? This is what I’m going to do. I’m going out to ask Nurse if she can’t give you something for the pain a little ahead of schedule. Then I’m going to give you the Casey Adams special back rub. I’ll fluff your pillows just the way you like them. Then I’m going to read to you from this . . . this piece of trash you are so fond of. You have to promise to go to sleep though. Is it a deal?”

  “Do I have a choice?” the old lady muttered.

  “I can leave.”

  “All right.”

  Casey was back a moment later with a sugar pill in her hand. “This,” she said, holding out the pill so the old lady could see it, “is the strongest medicine we have. It’s going to work very quickly, so it will behoove us to move right along here.”

  Fifteen minutes later the patient was propped up in her nest of pillows, a contented smile on her face. “Chapter Four. I’ll pray while you read,” the old lady said, blessing herself.

  Casey opened the book and started to read. “ ‘He ripped her blouse, exposing a creamy white breast. Julian’s eyes glazed. Megan’s eyes filled with tears. ”Oh, Julian, I’ve waited so long for this. Do it! Do it! I can’t bear it a moment longer! Make wild, passionate love to me right here on the kitchen floor. Do it, Julian!” ’ ”

  Casey risked a glance at her patient. Sound asleep. She closed the novel and laid it on the night table. She tiptoed around the bed to turn off the overhead light. “Good-bye, Mrs. Laroux,” she whispered.

  At the desk she stopped one last time. “Her bedsores aren’t getting any better. Take care of her. Good-bye, Michelle. Oh, by the way, I left off where Julian is going to do it with Megan right on the kitchen floor. I’d read that instead of the one you’re reading.”

  “Are you kidding? This is one of hers. Have a safe trip, Casey, and all the luck in the world.”

  Casey blew her a kiss as she headed for the stairs.

  CASEY ADAMS LOVED Paris.

  And she was leaving.

  Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  She loved this café by the Closerie des Lilas. She longed for spring and wished she hadn’t made the decision to leave during this drab month of February. She wanted to see the monstrous horse chestnut trees in bloom, not these naked, angry-looking trees. She worried now that she was making a mistake. The crazy urge to run and throw her arms around the ancient chestnut trees was so strong, she gripped the edge of the wrought-iron table.

  It was cold here in the café, but she didn’t want to get up, to move indoors. She wasn’t in the mood to hear the hushed whispers of young lovers. The French were so passionate in everything they did, be it soul-searching stares, hand-touching, or wine-drinking. Perhaps she was angry that she was only half French and half American. Over the years, she’d told herself the American side of her accounted for her caution and intensity. Most of the young people she knew subscribed to the philosophy that they should live, love, and be happy, while she believed in work, work, and more work. Danele, her outspoken friend, often said, “Fix yourself up, Casey, smile, and men will drop at your feet.” As if she wanted men to drop at her feet.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t date; she did. Young interns constantly asked her out, but they were boring dates: full of shop talk and life and death. They all wanted sex—casual or intense—they didn’t care. What they weren’t prepared for was any kind of commitment, and none of the young men she knew were husband material.

  When the fourth cup of coffee was set in front of her, Casey realized she didn’t want it. She just wanted to sit here and never move. She was tired because of all the walking she’d done earlier. Her last good-bye to Paris. Some day she would come back, but not for a very long time. Earlier she’d gone by the little apartment house in Ile St. Louis one last time, a stone’s throw from the gardens of Notre Dame which were dormant now, but she’d walked through them anyway, crying with every step she took. She’d sat on a bench overlooking the Seine for hours, thinking of the bench as a kind of scaffolding giving her different views, views she’d taken for granted all her life. She’d looked downstream and set her watch by the clock of the Institut Français. If she’d stayed longer, waited for the sun to set, she would have seen the way the light filled the towers of the Louvre and the muddy green water of the river. She’d burned into her memory the sight of the Pont Neuf crossing the prow of the Ile de la Cite. From her position on the bench she couldn’t see the Ile St. Louis, which to her was the world’s most perfect village.

  She’d spent an hour in the Grand Galerie of the Louvre. The Louvre always left her breathless, and today was no exception. She’d wept and then cried again when she trekked under the chestnut trees in Luxembourg Gardens. She’d walked, one last time, the promenade of the Champs Elysées, her eyes misty with tears. She’d shed so many tears today, her eyes ached with strain.

  She’d made her way then to Sacre Coeur at Montmartre to see Paris at her feet, and once again she’d promised herself to return.

  Casey glanced at her watch. She’d been sitting here in the café for a very long time. She signaled the waiter for her check, stood up and buttoned her coat. Even though it was cold, she decided to walk back to the hospital for her luggage.

  She was short, more French in that way than American with soft blond hair the color of fresh-churned butter. Nicole said she was wispy and angelic. When she smiled, which wasn’t often, the smile always reached her eyes. She believed her high cheekbones came from her mother, and she dusted them lightly with rouge every morning. Her hands were soft and capable-looking. She kept her nails cut short and applied a coat of light polish after she buffed them. Casey’s hands were one of the first things people noticed about her, after they got over the shock of her buttery-colored hair which she wore pinned on top of her head so her nurse’s cap would stay secure.

  A furious gust of wind swooped through the sidewalk café. It had turned colder too, Casey thought as she buttoned her camel-colored coat close to her throat. The waiters were carrying the tables and chairs inside. She sucked in her breath when another gust of wind, this one stronger, fussed about her knees, whipping the hem of her short coat away from her wool skirt.

  Casey took one last, long look at the café where she’d spent so much time over the years. When she was satisfied she would remember it, she shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat and strode off.

  The airline ticket in her pocket felt comforting. Her cold fingers traced lines across the smooth paper. She could hardly wait to see California.

  CASEY SET FOOT on American soil for the second time in twenty-four hours.

  She walked around the airport to get the feel of the way Americans did things. They walked in a hurry, she noticed, just the way they did in New York, and they were wearing incredibly short skirts.

  Everyone had tanned skin and poufed-out hairdos. It took her all of five minutes to realize people were staring at her the way she was staring at them. Her pink sweater set looked childish, as did the garbardine skirt that fell below her knees. The models were wearing short s
kirts in Paris, but the locals never bent to the fast-moving trends until they were certain a hemline was going to be around for a while. She wondered what kind of underwear the women and young girls wore and if they dared to bend over. She looked schoolmarmish by comparison. Her natural curly hair, which she had cut two days before, was short and feathered about her face. Even if she wanted to change to the pageboy curl or the teased-up cotton candy ’do, she didn’t have enough hair. She found herself blinking at the eyeliner on the women. At first she thought all the women were movie stars, until she saw several elderly ladies with blue eyelids and dark lines around their eyes. Raccoons. Casey felt a bubble of laughter begin to build in her throat. Touring the airport, she marveled at the gift stores, coffee shops, bookstores, and lounges, and at the hordes of people bustling about. She loved it all, itched to buy something, but she was unsure of the currency and wouldn’t know if she was being overcharged or if an item was too expensive.

  Coming toward her was a gaggle of military personnel, both men and women. Casey stepped aside as the laughing group swept past her. She liked uniforms, possibly because she’d worn them all her life. These young men and women were so pressed and shined, they positively glowed. The women’s skirts were knee length, Casey noticed, their pumps the same as hers, their hair short, their caps at jaunty angles. She wondered where they were going.

  She was outside now. Why in the world had she thought California was going to be warm and sunny? It wasn’t. It was dismal with rain falling steadily and a low, swirling fog. She read a novel once where the author claimed the air in California was perfumed, and women didn’t have to buy exotic French fragrances. To her the air smelled moldy and earthy. She longed for sun and warm air. She snuggled deeper into her coat, glad that she hadn’t dressed for a southern climate.

  “Taxi, miss?”

  “Oui. Yes, I wish a taxi,” she said, mindful that she had to speak English. “I want to go to 3345 Lombard Street, Russian Hill,” Casey said, settling herself in the backseat, her bags secure in the trunk.

  The taxi driver started talking the moment he moved from the curb. Casey listened intently, certain she was about to receive a firsthand education on life in America. She changed her mind a moment later when the driver started to curse the antiwar protestors in the middle of the road. “That singer, what’s her name, Joan Baez, tried with a bunch of others to block the doors of the Selective Service Center in Oakland. That’s not too far from here either. It’s not American to do that,” he snorted, giving the wheel a vicious tug. He laughed, a bitter sound. “They arrested her and charged her with disturbing the peace. Can you beat that!” Casey shrugged. “You know what else?” the cabbie said angrily. “Just last month a Catholic priest and a few other idiots poured blood over Selective Service files in Baltimore. Then they parked themselves and waited for the FBI, to arrive and arrest them. Can you beat that?” Casey shrugged again. She wasn’t into politics, French or American.

  “Are you a native Californian?” Casey asked, hoping to change the subject.

  “Nope. I hail from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. You sound like a Frenchie. Are you a Frenchie?”

  “My father was American. My mother was French. I have dual citizenship. Is my accent very noticeable?” she asked anxiously. Damn, she wanted to blend in so desperately, and she’d worked so hard on her English. Now this babbling cab driver was telling her he was astute enough to know immediately that she was French.

  It was the cab driver’s turn to shrug. “I pick up all kinds of people. I’ve been driving a hack for twenty-five years. After a while your ear can tell a foreigner. No offense.”

  “No offense.” Casey smiled.

  “Is this your first visit to California?”

  “Yes. I’m going to live here now. Is the weather always so terrible?”

  “At this time of the year it is. You’ll have to get used to it. I did when I first moved here. I thought the sun was going to shine all day long. If you want sunshine, you’ll have to go to Los Angeles. I have a cousin who lives there. If I knew there were no protestors there, I’d go in a heartbeat. It’s not right for famous people to let their names be used for such things. Because then ordinary people start to believe it’s okay. Either you’re American or you’re not, that’s the way I look at it. I don’t like to see our boys getting killed any more than the next person. You can’t believe what the papers tell you either. Only Washington knows what’s going on, and they don’t share it with us little people.”

  “I guess that means you’re for the United States’ involvement in Vietnam,” Casey said, craning her neck to squint through the fog. She wished he’d talk about someone famous like the Beach Boys. “Do the Beach Boys live here?”

  “I mind my own business and don’t get involved, and I think they are from here. Are they the boys who sing ‘Barbara Ann’? I hear it on the radio all day long.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s the latest song they sing. It sounds wonderful in French.”

  The cabbie snorted as he steered the cab around a stalled car.

  “I like Perry Como and Bing Crosby.”

  Casey smiled.

  The driver, his window rolled down, was switching his gaze from the windshield to the side window. Gray fog rolled inside the open car window in slinky tendrils which reminded Casey of snakes. “The fog is really bad today. Lombard Street is not my favorite street at any time of the day, and in the rain and fog it’s worse.”

  “Why is that?” Casey asked nervously.

  “Lombard is the crookedest street in San Francisco. Tomorrow in the daylight you’ll see for yourself. It’s every cabbie’s nightmare.”

  Casey believed him as she slid from one side of the cab to the other. Visibility, she knew, was about zero. She blessed herself as she settled against the right side of the cab. She was jostled almost immediately to the left side. Her handbag slipped to the floor. Before she knew it, she was on the floor too, groping for a handhold.

  “This is it!” the driver said in a relieved tone. Casey’s tone was just as relieved when she thanked him.

  She wished she could see what the house looked like. First impressions were so important. But like the driver said, tomorrow was another day.

  It was so dark, Casey stumbled twice going up the brick walkway to the house. The driver, carrying her cases behind her, offered up a muttered curse as he too stumbled.

  “I’m sorry there are no lights on. Just leave the bags on the stoop. I have to find the key and the light switch. Thank you very much. Be careful driving back.”

  “Thank you,” the driver called back. She must have given him too much money.

  Casey fumbled in the mailbox for the key Nolan Quigley said he would leave for her. The moment her fingers touched the key, she let her breath out in a long sigh. Her hands searched her pockets for a match. With trembling fingers she tried to hold the wavering little light steady while she fit the key into the lock. It turned easily. She sucked in her breath. Another second and she would be inside. She turned the knob quickly. If she’d been less cold, if her teeth weren’t chattering, she would have delayed the moment. Warmth won out.

  She was inside, her bags in the foyer. To the left and down low she saw a small night-light. Mr. Quigley must have left it on for her. She noticed it was also warm in the house. Heat. How wonderful it was.

  Casey walked around, the low beam of light guiding her way as she flipped on switches. It was a lovely little house. She walked back to the kitchen. Quaint. Cheerful. Colorful. Even comfortable. But definitely a man’s kitchen. The round oak table and four chairs looked strong and sturdy enough to weather a hurricane. The word comfortable popped to mind a second time. The windows were curtainless; there was no rug on the floor by the sink, no plants on the windowsill. There was a cookie jar, though, in the shape of an oversized mushroom. She lifted the lid. It was almost full of date-filled cookies.

  She hadn’t asked the attorney when the man who had claimed to be her father had died. Now
she wished she had. She bit into one of the cookies. They were fresh.

  The stove was clean. The refrigerator was clean and bare, save for a carton of milk and a can of Maxwell House coffee. She looked in the cabinets. Soup, lots of soup. Canned vegetables, lots of corn. Lots of spaghetti and macaroni. Lots of dry cereal too. A man’s pantry, and one who didn’t cook much, she decided.

  The dining room was square, as was the living room. Probably twelve by fifteen. The furniture was plain. The dining room set looked as if it had never been used. A layer of dust covered everything. She liked the living room, with its two comfortable rockers covered in a dark, coarse, plaid material. The sofa was hunter-green. Again, a man’s sofa, long, deep, and comfortable. Copies of Time, Newsweek, and Business Week were stacked neatly on the round coffee table next to a huge crystal ashtray. A lighter and a fresh pack of cigarettes sat next to it.

  She loved the fireplace. She stooped down to peer inside. A fire was laid. She withdrew a long match from a brass container on the hearth. The wood sparked instantly.

  There were no bookshelves or pictures to give a clue about her father. No extra furniture. The corners were bare. Women always stuck things in corners to round out a room. Tears brimmed in Casey’s eyes. There should be something on the mantel, but there wasn’t. She felt cheated. Tears dripped down her cheeks.

  She retraced her steps to the kitchen, where she measured out coffee and water into the percolator. She would have coffee by the fire. She wondered if she had the right to go through the rolltop desk against the living room wall.