Mirage

by Soheir Khashoggi

  “Well, I … actually, I came to say good-bye. Not good-bye exactly, not forever, but I’m going away.”

  “To France?” Jenna’s heart sank. Though she hadn’t seen her niece in— God, how long?—it had been a comfort to know that she was in New York, within easy reach. They had talked a couple of times on the telephone, and Jenna had tried to make that enough.

  “No. Nothing like that. I transferred to UCLA. I’m going to study film- making. It’s a really good school for that, you know.”

  “So I’ve heard. But what about New York? I thought you loved being in the city. Come in, Laila, don’t stand in the doorway. We can talk inside.” Laila took a few steps forward, then stopped. “I can only stay a minute. I have a ride—some friends who dropped me off. They just went to the deli. They’ll be back any second.”

  “You came all the way to Boston to stop by for a minute?” Jenna couldn’t make any sense of this.

  “I was visiting these friends. From school.” Laila looked around the apartment, not really taking it in, avoiding Jenna’s eyes. She swallowed hard. “I was raped, you know,” she said, her voice so low it could hardly be heard. “Four months ago. No, don’t look like that. I’m all right. Really.”

  No, please no, Jenna begged a distant and remote God. Not my beautiful niece.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, struggling to maintain control. “What happened?”

  Laila shrugged, a gesture belied by the pain that showed in her face. “It was someone I knew. I even kind of liked him.” She shrugged again. “There’s no point in going over it. Talking can’t change what happened.”

  Jenna yearned to hold her close and comfort her, but everything about Laila said she wanted distance. Not good, Jenna thought, making a professional observation. And the flattened affect, that's not good either. “Have you seen anyone? A therapist?”

  “Yeah, sure. She helped some … I guess.” Laila seemed to be studying her shoes. “You know, I thought of coming to you, but it would’ve been like, I don’t know, going to see my mother. Maybe that sounds silly, but …”

  “No, no, it doesn’t.” It was all Jenna could do to hold back her tears.

  “But I’m okay now. It’s just one reason I transferred. I wanted to get away.” Though Jenna understood all too well the needs that drove a woman to flee, she wanted to tell Laila that running away wasn’t always the answer. “Are you sure—” she began, but at that moment, Karim appeared.

  He looked at Jenna, then at Laila. His expression asked: What’s going on? But he would never be so blunt with a stranger. He simply smiled and waited for his mother to speak.

  Not knowing what else to do, Jenna made the introductions.

  “Laila Badir?” Karim repeated. “Are you related to Malik Badir?” “He’s my father.”

  “Wow. I mean …”

  “I know,” Laila said softly. Obviously, it was a reaction she’d seen many times before.

  O

  But Karim’s reaction went deeper than Laila could have suspected. What are you doing here, he wanted to ask, frustrated that his mother had given no explanation. He had the oddest sensation that he knew Laila Badir—not just knew who she was, but knew her. It was something he couldn’t explain.

  I’m staring, he realized. But just as he thought it, she suddenly gave him a small, sweet smile. For a moment, it was as if they were the only two people in the room.

  “Would you like something to drink?” he asked, feeling awkward. How could his mother have failed to offer their guest any refreshment? Had she forgotten her manners completely? And why did she look so uncomfortable?

  “Actually, I’d like some water, thank you.”

  Karim hurried to the kitchen and put a Perrier with lime on a tray.

  “Thank you,’’ Laila repeated. Still standing, she took a few polite sips, then said to Jenna, “I have to go. Really. But like I said, it’s not really good- bye. I’ll write, call. I’ll probably be in New York now and then. And you travel, don’t you? You’ll be out on the Coast sometime, right?”

  “Laila, you must call me if you need … anything. Anything at all.” “Sure. Well, au ’voir.”

  Suddenly, they were hugging each other tight. Karim saw the tears in his mother’s eyes. When did she meet this girl? Why did she never tell him? And why had she said she didn’t know Malik Badir?

  “I’ll walk you downstairs,” he suddenly said as Laila turned toward the door. Again, the little smile. She was years older than he was, a grown-up, really, but somehow the smile made her seem closer to his age.

  Her ride hadn’t come yet. He was glad.

  “You’re going to California?” he said, for want of a better opener. “Yes. In a few days.”

  “Where are you from?” “France.”

  “Your father’s from al-Remal, isn’t he? Did you ever live there?” “No. I’ve never lived anywhere in the Middle East. I know a little about it from Papa, I speak serviceable Arabic, but that’s about all.”

  “Oh.” He didn’t know why he’d expected it to be otherwise. Maybe just the way she looked.

  “These days I feel more American than anything else.”

  A car approached. Her ride? No, it passed. Laila seemed disinclined to say anything more.

  “What’s he like, your father?” Karim asked to break the sudden silence. “He’s … I miss him. He’s away a lot.”

  “How do you know my mom?”

  For a moment, he was afraid he had said something wrong. Then Laila shrugged. “I met her in Saks in New York.”

  “Saks Fifth Avenue? The store?” He couldn’t remember his mother taking any shopping trips to New York. In fact, even in Boston, she complained that she never had time to go shopping.

  Silence. It was as if Laila had gone a little distance away from him. “You were shopping?” he prompted.

  “What? Oh.” She looked him in the eyes. Again, the feeling of recognition. Did she feel it, too? “Actually,” she said, “I was shoplifting.” Shoplifting? The daughter of the world’s richest man? “But why?” “It’s a long story. But she rescued me.” She outlined the events in Saks.

  Nothing about it sounded like his mother, who was always so insistent on right and wrong. Something was going on here. Something was being with- held from him.

  “Then you’re not one of her …” “One of her patients? No.”

  A car pulled to a stop.

  “My ride,” said Laila. “Thanks for waiting with me.” “I’d like to see you again,” Karim blurted.

  She looked startled. “It’s not a good time.” “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  Her face softened. “I know. It’s just that I’m leaving.”

  He thought for a moment that she was going to touch him—his arm, per- haps his face. But she didn’t.

  “I’ll send you both my address in California,” she said. Then she was gone.

  O

  In the apartment, Jenna had managed something like calm after Laila’s bitterly unexpected news.

  What had Karim thought of the visitor? With luck, maybe nothing too hard to explain. If anything, he had seemed rather puppyishly smitten with her. He came back in, his expression one that was new to her, a mixture of puzzlement and—what? Hope?

  “How do you know Laila Badir, Mom?” “She was a patient. Not for long.”

  “Do you always cry about your patients?” “Sometimes.”

  But now his expression was one she knew very well. She had seen it on his father a hundred times.

  Eyes flat and blank, as cold and distant from her as some outer planet, he slowly shook his head and disappeared into his room.

  O

  After a night of broken sleep and a brusque “See you later” from her son on his way out in the morning, Jenna was trying to concentrate on her first patient’s troubles with his brother when Barbara, her new secretary, buzzed.

  Jenna’s policy, like that of almost all her colleagues, was that sessions were to be interrupted only
for emergencies.

  “Yes?”

  “Jenna, there’s a police officer out here. She says it’s important.” Jenna’s first thought was Karim. Then, for some reason, Laila.

  The woman was in plainclothes. “Detective Sue Keller,” she said, showing a Boston badge. “You’re Dr. Jenna Sorrel?”

  “Yes. What’s the matter?”

  “You know a Mr. and Mrs. Cameron Chandler?” “Yes.” Oh, God. What now?

  “Either of them a patient of yours?” “No.”

  “Then I may ask you for a statement later. Just some background information.”

  “Tell me what’s happened.”

  “Mrs. Chandler is in Mass General. She’s in pretty bad shape.” “How bad?” “She’s a good friend of yours, ma’am?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you might want to get over there. It’s bad.”

  Brad

  Carolyn was in a coma, with massive injuries to her body organs and brain. Cameron was in jail, charged with attempted murder. Jenna knew that much from Sue Keller.

  In a waiting room, Josh Chandler looked near shock, as if he had walked away from some terrible accident. “I was going to call you,” he said distractedly.

  “But after I gave the police your name, I didn’t know what was right.” “It’s okay, Josh. Your mother—have you heard anything?”

  “No, I don’t know, Miz Sorrel. Oh, God. I … I don’t think it’s good.” He choked back a sob.

  “Have you seen her?”

  “Not since they took her into surgery.” “Josh, what happened?”

  “Like I told the police, I heard them arguing—fighting—this morning, early. I guess Dad had … just come in. It was worse than … I should have done something, but, you know?”

  “I know. I know. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Then it quieted down. I went back to sleep. I mean, it’s happened before.

  Not like this, but …”

  “It’s not your fault, Josh. What happened then?”

  “Nothing. I mean, I woke up and started to get ready for school. And Mom and Dad’s door was open, and I looked in and saw Mom on the floor—” Josh’s voice broke. “And Dad—Dad had all his ties spread out on the bed. He was like, trying them on. He said, ‘You’d better do something about this, Josh.’ And I called 911.”

  “Do you have anyone, Josh? Relatives?”

  “Grandmother—my mom’s mom—she’s on her way from Connecticut. I think she’ll stay at the house until … whatever happens.”

  “That’s good. But if you’d like to stay with Karim and me, you’re more than welcome. Just pack a bag and come over.”

  “Thanks, Miz Sorrel. Maybe I will. But not tonight. Tonight, I want to stay with Mom.”

  “Okay,” said Jenna. “I’m going to see what I can find out.”

  But all she could learn, even after rather deceptively identifying herself as Dr. Sorrel, was that Carolyn was still in surgery. Only hours later did a nurse finally give her the word: “She’s in Intensive Care now, doctor, if you’d care to look in for a minute. Room 2623.”

  O

  Against the crisp white linen of her narrow bed, Carolyn looked frail and utterly fragile, her swollen face the texture and color of rotten fruit. Plastic tubes everywhere. That’s how I looked in al-Remal, Jenna thought. Philippe came for me. I was lucky. I lived. God willing, God willing, Carolyn will be lucky, too.

  “Dr. Sorrel?” A sallow, weary-looking man in surgeon’s green.

  “Yes.”

  “Stan Morgan. You’re the primary care?” “No. Just a friend of the family.”

  “Oh. Well, doctor, I don’t know how much you want to know about this.” “Just the prognosis.”

  Morgan grimaced. “Not good, I’m afraid, although it’s still early. We could lose her. Even if we don’t, we may be looking at Wysiwyg here.” Jenna understood just enough computerese to know that “wysiwyg” meant “what you see is what you get.” “Irreversible coma?”

  Morgan rattled off some technical details of trauma, hemorrhage, oxy- gen deprivation. What it amounted to was that, if Carolyn lived at all, it would be in a vegetative state.

  A death sentence, Jenna thought. And all because Carolyn had loved Cameron Chandler.

  O

  Josh had been joined by Carolyn’s mother, a petite, delicately lovely china doll of a woman. Jenna hugged the boy, feeling she had let him down, and murmured a few empty words of comfort to his grandmother.

  “You and Carolyn must be good friends,” said Margaret Porter.

  “I … yes, we’re good friends.” She said it more to comfort Mrs. Porter than to ease her own conscience. She knew all too well how Cameron had isolated Carolyn from anyone who wanted to be her friend—anyone who might interfere with his control.

  “I’m glad,” Mrs. Porter sighed. “She’ll need her friends around her if she … when she …”

  “I know,” Jenna said softly. “And her friends will be there for her, I promise.” “She was such a good girl,” Mrs. Porter murmured. “Never any trouble.”

  Don’t talk about her that way, Jenna wanted to say. It sounds as if she’s already gone. But she simply nodded. “I think they’ll let you see her now. Just be pre- pared. She’s very badly hurt. But sometimes these things look worse than they are.” Words, empty words.

  O

  Night. The lights of the city looked like close but intensely lonely stars. Visiting hours had ended. Josh and his grandmother were going to the Chandler home after all; the hospital discouraged overnight stays by patients’ relatives, and it was clear that they could do nothing more here. Karim had arrived after school and was going with his friend.

  Exhausted both mentally and physically, Jenna stopped in the hospital cafeteria for a desperately needed cup of tea. But the steaming liquid did little to soothe her troubled spirit or ease her guilt.

  As she rose to leave, she noticed a man nursing a cup of coffee a few tables away. A beautiful patrician face, close-cut dark hair, blue-blue eyes. And the saddest expression she’d ever seen. What was his story? Jenna wondered. Was a loved one upstairs fighting for life? Was there still hope? Or had the battle been lost? Those blue eyes were so expressive—so like Philippe’s.

  The following day, she stopped by the hospital during the lunch hour and hurried back as soon as she had finished with her last patient. Mrs. Porter’s husband had arrived, and the couple sat mournfully in a corner. Karim was there to provide support and companionship for Josh, whose eyes were red- rimmed and puffy.

  Nothing had changed for Carolyn except that the prognosis was now more certain: irreversible coma.

  For hours, Jenna kept watch beside the empty shell that had once been her friend. The boys left the hospital at dinnertime, and the Porters retired to the waiting room. Jenna stayed at Carolyn’s bedside, as if through sheer presence and devotion she could remedy the past, restore the future. She massaged Carolyn’s hands, even talked to her, giving little bits of news and encouragement. Maybe, just maybe it would help.

  Once again, she ended her vigil with a trip to the hospital cafeteria—and once more, the sad-looking man was there. Khaki pants and a crew neck sweater over a white oxford shirt—like an aging college boy, Jenna thought, finding the image sweet and somehow vulnerable. Impulsively, she put her cup of tea on the table next to his. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, “but you look as sad as I feel. It might help to talk about it.”

  The man tried to smile but failed. “My wife’s upstairs,” he said in a soft, slightly hoarse baritone. “She has cancer.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Jenna murmured. “But this is a good hospital, one of the best. I hope …”

  The man shook his head. “No,” he said heavily, “I’m afraid not. It’s just a matter of waiting. And saying good-bye.”

  Jenna couldn’t bring herself to utter more platitudes. After a few sips of her tea, she left with a murmured, “Good night.”

  The follow
ing night, as if by agreement, they had their coffee and tea together. She told him about Carolyn. He shook his head in sadness and anger when she described the beating.

  “And your wife?” she asked. “Any news?”

  “Nothing good. But it won’t be long now.” For a few moments, he seemed to drift away. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I seem to have forgotten my man- ners. My name is Brad Pierce.”

  “Jenna Sorrel. Do you work nearby?”

  “I own a pharmaceutical company, out on route 128.” Though he did not elaborate, Jenna made the connection at once: Pierce Pharmaceuticals was one of the largest in the world.

  “It’s ironic,” he was saying. “No, it’s … cruel. The things we’re research- ing now, recombinant DNA, we’re learning something new about the immune system every day. In five years, I believe, maybe less, we’ll have something that could have saved her.”

  Then it was Jenna’s turn to tell something about herself. When she mentioned the Sanctuary, she saw a flicker of interest in the blue eyes.

  “You might want to get in touch with the Pierce Foundation,” Brad said. “We fund a lot of charities and causes.”

  “Thank you. We depend on donations and grants to keep afloat—but somehow, there’s never enough to help everyone who needs it.”

  He nodded, as if he’d heard the story before. “The foundation was really Pat’s idea,” he explained. “She’s been far more active in it than I have. This is the kind of thing she’d support one hundred percent.” He sighed wearily. “I need to get back upstairs. It was nice meeting you. I’m serious about contacting the foundation.”

  “Thanks. It was nice meeting you, too.”

  His interest seemed so genuine that the next night, Jenna brought along some public relations material on the Sanctuary, as well as a few newspaper stories on the work they did. But, to her disappointment, Brad Pierce was not at his usual spot in the cafeteria. Odd how she had come to expect him, almost as if it were a rendezvous. Something must have happened, she thought, but feeling it would be intrusive to inquire, she simply went home.

  O