Mary Clark - The Shadow of Your Smile

On Saturday night, before she went to bed, Monica had double-locked and bolted the door to the patio, then wedged a chair under the knob on the kitchen side. She had talked to some of her friends and asked about their alarm systems, and afterward she left an urgent message for one company asking for the immediate installation of a state-of-the-art system, including security cameras on the patio.

That done, she hoped to feel somewhat more secure, but her dreams had been filled with memories of her father. Fragmented as they were, she remembered that in one of them she had been with him in St. Patrick’s Cathedral. She woke with the sensation of his hand in hers.

Did I ever really appreciate him? she asked herself, as she got up and began to make coffee. Looking back I can begin to understand how much he loved Mom. He never looked at another woman after she died, and he was such a handsome man.

That year that she was so sick, I was ten years old. I never wanted to go anywhere or do anything. I just wanted to come straight from school to be with her. After she was gone, Dad made me join school activities, and that first year he brought me to New York on so many weekends. We went to plays and concerts and museums and did the fun, touristy stuff. But we were both so sad about Mom…

He was a great storyteller, Monica remembered with a smile, as she decided to boil an egg and have a slice of whole wheat toast instead of an English muffin. When we went to Rockefeller Center at Christmastime, he told me all about the first tree that was ever put up there. It was a little one the workmen had put up because it was during the Depression and they were so grateful just to have jobs. He knew the history behind every place we visited…

He loved history, but he didn’t have any concept of his background, his own history. Knowing that I was so close to learning about it has finally made me understand how important that was to him. I used to joke with him about it. “Dad, you may be the illegitimate son of the Duke of Windsor. What would Queen Elizabeth think about that?” I thought I was being funny.

If only Olivia Morrow had lived one more day! If only she had lived one more day…

While the egg boiled, Monica called the hospital. Sally had slept through the night. Her temperature was only slightly elevated. She hadn’t coughed much. “Every day, she’s so much better, Doctor,” the nurse reported, happily. “But you should know that some reporters were trying to get up here to take her picture. The security desk got rid of them.”

“I would hope so,” Monica said, fervently. “You have my cell phone. Call if there’s any change with Sally, and if any reporters manage to sneak upstairs, don’t let them anywhere near Sally.”

Shaking her head, she scooped the egg into a cup and put it on a plate with the toast. The thoughts of her father would not leave her mind. It’s Sunday morning. Dad and I always went to St. Patrick’s for the ten fifteen Mass there, when we came to New York for the weekend, she remembered. And after that we’d have brunch, and it was his surprise to me where we were going for the afternoon. Being away from home and doing different things like that helped both of us.

Maybe I’ll go to the ten fifteen at the cathedral, she mused. It would make me feel closer to Dad. I need that feeling right now.

I wonder what Ryan and his girlfriend are planning to do today?

Stop it, Monica warned herself. Make some plans for your own afternoon. Going to that movie last night was one miserable letdown. It was terrible. What do the critics see in something that makes absolutely no sense? Maybe I’ll call a few people and, if they’re free, have them in for dinner. I haven’t cooked for company in the last three weeks. I always love doing that, but these past few weeks have been so crazy…

But somehow the idea was not appealing.

But I will go to St. Pat’s this morning, she decided fifteen minutes later, as she finished a second cup of coffee, enjoying the luxury of lingering over it as she read the newspapers that had been delivered to the door.

At ten fifteen, she was in the cathedral, kneeling in a pew toward the front left side of the main altar, the area that her father had always chosen. Yesterday at this time, I was in St. Vincent’s listening to Father Dunlap eulogize Olivia Morrow, then talk about me. No one could help, and I guess no one ever will. I know what I was trying to remember that had to do with Sally, she suddenly recalled: it’s that I told Susan Gannon Sally almost didn’t make it.

It wasn’t by a miracle or the power of prayer that Sally survived. The reason is that the kid who was her babysitter was smart enough to bring her to the hospital in time, and that we had the medicine to save her.

The choir was singing, “I have heard you calling in the night.” I guess I’ve answered enough calls in the night, Monica thought wryly. I went to that beatification hearing, and testified that there had to be some medical reason why Michael O’Keefe is still alive. When Ryan saw the file, he said that there was absolutely no way Michael’s brain tumor wasn’t terminal. Ryan’s a neurosurgeon. I’m not, but I am a good pediatrician. I know perfectly well there are no medical facts that justify Michael’s recovery. Sister Catherine spent her life taking care of disabled children. She opened seven hospitals for them. I’m proud of myself that I was there for Sally, and that I helped Carlos to beat the leukemia.

I took an oath that I was testifying about the case to the best of my ability and knowledge. Am I being stubbornly blind? I need to see Michael. It’s been three years. I want to see him again.

Monica tried to focus on the Mass, but her thoughts kept drifting. The O’Keefes had moved to Mamaroneck from their Manhattan apartment shortly after Michael was diagnosed with brain cancer. It was only when Michael seemed to be fully recovered that they had triumphantly brought him back to her office…

“Go in peace, the Mass is ended,” the Archbishop pronounced.

As Monica left the cathedral, the choir was singing “Joyful, joyful, we adore thee.” She fumbled for her cell phone and dialed information. The O’Keefes’ phone number was listed. She dialed it and the call was picked up on the first ring. “This is Dr. Monica Farrell,” she said, “is this Mrs. O’Keefe?”

“Yes, it is,” a warm voice responded. “It’s nice to hear from you, Doctor.”

“Thank you, Mrs. O’Keefe. I’m calling because I am very anxious to see Michael again. Would you mind if I came up to visit you? I promise I won’t stay long.”

“That’s absolutely fine. We’re home all day. Do you want to come this afternoon?”

“I’d very much like to come this afternoon.”

“Has it anything to do with Sister Catherine’s beatification?”

“It has everything to do with it,” Monica said quietly.

“Then come right up. Will you be driving yourself?”

“Yes.”

“We look forward to seeing you, Dr. Monica. Isn’t it funny that a neurosurgeon, Dr. Ryan Jenner, was here only yesterday afternoon? He also wanted to meet Michael before he speaks to the beatification committee. What a wonderful person he is. I’m sure you must know him?”

Monica felt a stab of pain. “Yes, I do,” she said quietly. “I know him quite well.”

Two hours later, Monica was in Mamaroneck having a sandwich and coffee with Richard and Emily O’Keefe. Michael, their energetic eight-year-old son, had politely visited with Monica and had answered her questions with only a tinge of restlessness. He told her that his favorite sport was baseball, but that in the winter he liked to go skiing with his father. He never, ever felt dizzy, the way he used to when he was real sick.