Mary Clark: The Shadow of Your Smile

Funny about those boys. Boys, she admonished herself sarcastically. They’re middle-aged men. But it is funny how Peter got all the looks in the family. He could still be a movie star with that handsome face and big brown eyes and charm to spare. No wonder the girls were always throwing themselves at him. Still are, I bet.

On the other hand, Greg never did outgrow his pudgy teenaged shape and, let’s face it, he’s as plain as Peter is gorgeous. Now Greg’s starting to go bald and he’s always been sensitive about his height. Kind of unfair, I guess. But neither one of them, in my opinion, has lived up to his father and certainly not to Dr. Gannon.

Oh well, better remind myself that I get well paid, I have a nice office, I have a fat retirement package when I choose to take it, and a lot of people would love to be in my situation.

Esther began to go through the batch of mail that had been placed on her desk. It was she who examined the hundreds of requests for grants and steered the appropriate ones to the board, which consisted of Greg and Peter Gannon, Dr. Clay Hadley, Dr. Douglas Langdon, and for the past eight years, Greg’s second wife, Pamela.

Sometimes she was able to pass along “grassroot pleas,” as she called them, from smaller hospitals or churches or missions in desperate need of money. For the most part the requests that went through had been the kind that would put the Gannon name on hospitals and art centers where the family name would be displayed large, and their largesse could not be missed. In the past couple of years, there had been fewer and fewer of those grants.

I wonder how much money they really do have left? she asked herself.

Monday night after Scott Alterman’s call, Monica had barely slept. Tuesday night was the same. Her first thought on waking at six A.M. on Wednesday had again been of him. He’s not serious, she thought, as she had tried to convince herself all the previous day. He’s got to be bluffing. He wouldn’t give up his practice in Boston to move here.

Or would he? He’s a brilliant lawyer. He’s only forty years old and he’s successfully defended high-ranking politicians all over the country and has a national reputation. That’s just it. With that reputation he can go anywhere. Why not New York?

But even if he does relocate, except for occasional phone calls and sending flowers to the apartment once or twice, he hasn’t really bothered me much in the four years I’ve been here, she reassured herself. She tried to take comfort in that thought as she showered, dressed in a maroon sweater and matching slacks, and clipped on small pearl earrings. I shouldn’t even wear these, she thought. The babies always grab at them. Over coffee and cereal, she began to worry about Sally Carter again. Yesterday, I didn’t discharge her and that was a stretch. Today, unless she developed a fever during the night, I have to let her go.

At eight fifteen she was at the hospital to make her early rounds. She stopped at the nurses’ desk to speak to Rita Greenberg. “Sally’s temperature has stayed normal and she’s been eating pretty well. Do you want to sign her discharge papers, Doctor?” Rita asked.

“Before I do I want to talk to the mother myself,” Monica said. “I’ve got a heavy schedule at the office. Please call Ms. Carter and tell her I have to meet with her before I discharge Sally. I’ll be back here at noon.”

“I left a message yesterday to say that as a precaution you were keeping Sally for another twenty-four hours. I guess she got the message, because Mommy dearest never came to visit Sally. I checked with the evening shift. That lady is some piece of work.”

Dismayed, Monica walked into the cubicle containing Sally’s crib. The baby was sleeping on her side, her hands tucked under her cheek. Her light brown ringlets framed her forehead and curled around her ears. She did not stir when Monica’s trained hands felt her back, listening for a sign of a rattle or a wheeze, but there was none.

Monica realized she was yearning to pick up Sally and have her wake up in her arms. Instead, she turned abruptly, left the cubicle, and began to make the rest of her rounds. All her little patients were progressing well. Not like Carlos Garcia, who was touch and go for so long, she thought. Not like Michael O’Keefe, who should have died three years ago.

In the corridor to the elevator she ran into Ryan Jenner, who was approaching from the opposite direction. This morning he was wearing a white jacket. “No surgery today, Doctor?” she asked as she passed him.

She had expected a casual “Not today” kind of answer tossed over his shoulder, but Jenner stopped. “And no windswept blond tresses,” he replied. “Monica, some of my friends from Georgetown are coming up for the weekend. We’re having cocktails at my place and going out to a Thai restaurant on Friday night. A couple of them, Genine Westervelt and Natalie Kramer, told me they hoped you’d be there. How about it?”

Startled at the suddenness of the unexpected invitation, Monica’s response was hesitant. “Well…”

Then, realizing she was being asked to meet with former fellow students and not for a personal date, she said, “I’d love to see Genine and Natalie again.”

“Good. I’ll e-mail you.” Jenner moved briskly down the corridor away from her. As Monica again began to walk to the elevator, she impulsively turned her head to look at his retreating back and was embarrassed to meet his glance.

Sheepishly, they nodded to each other as they simultaneously quickened their pace in opposite directions.

Promptly at noon Monica was back in the hospital waiting for Renée Carter, who arrived at twelve thirty, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she had kept Monica waiting. She was wearing an obviously expensive olive green suit with a short belted jacket. A black high-neck sweater, black stockings, and impossibly high black heels gave her the look of a fashion model about to embark on the runway. Her short auburn hair was tucked behind her ears, creating a frame for a very pretty face that had been further enhanced by expertly applied makeup. She’s not going home to take care of Sally, Monica thought. She’s probably got a lunch date. I wonder how much time she spends with that poor baby?

A week ago it had been the elderly babysitter who brought Sally to the emergency room. Renée Carter had arrived an hour later, wearing an evening gown and defensively explaining that the baby had been fine when she left her earlier that evening, and that she hadn’t realized her cell phone was turned off.

Now Monica realized that even with the makeup, Carter looked older than she had appeared that night. At least thirty-five, she thought.

Today, Carter was accompanied by a young woman of about twenty, who nervously volunteered that she was Kristina Johnson, Sally’s new nanny.

Carter made no attempt at apologizing for being late. Nor, Monica noticed with dismay, did she make any attempt to pick up Sally. “I fired the other babysitter,” she explained in a voice that bordered on being nasal. “She didn’t tell me that Sally had been coughing all day. But I know Kristina won’t make that kind of mistake. She’s been highly recommended.”

She turned to Kristina. “Why don’t you dress Sally while I talk to the doctor?”

Sally began wailing when Monica, followed by Renée Carter, left the cubicle. Monica did not turn back to look at her. Instead, heavyhearted at the thought that Sally was being taken away by this seemingly indifferent mother, she firmly warned Carter to pay close attention to Sally’s allergies. “Do you have any pets, Ms. Carter?” she asked.