Michael Palmer - Fatal

Even the striking neurofibromas had revealed little. Joe's initial impression of the lumps that covered Kathy's face and scalp was that they were fairly typical examples of the condition — cause unknown, except for the likelihood they were due to some sort of mutation or other genetic factor. He had assured Nikki that he wasn't giving up and would be calling some other pathologists for advice, as well as trying some special staining techniques. But for the moment at least, the questions that remained unanswered were like unfulfilled promises.

Nikki rolled the window down halfway and breathed in the fragrant Appalachian air. She had traveled some in the U.S. — a rafting trip down the Colorado through the Grand Canyon, mountain-bike tours of Bryce, Zion, and Yosemite National Parks, plus a week here and there in places like New Orleans, San Francisco, and Chicago. But this was her first time in West Virginia. Even viewed from the highway, it was a stunningly wild and beautiful place. The forests were dense and lush, and largely unspoiled. Countless streams and broader rivers wound under the roadway, roiling off through prolonged stretches of whitewater or meandering through the intensely deep green canopy, toward distant, dusky mountains. Waterfalls that would have been a major attraction in many places were simply… there. Driving through this country, it was easy for her to understand the passion for the natural earth in much of Kathy's music.

The sign on Route 29 read BELINDA, 20 MILES. As planned, she would be there an hour or so before the service. She could have flown and rented a car as the band had done. But even though she would have to turn around and drive right back to Boston in order to avoid unnecessarily taking vacation time and, worse, being indebted to Brad Cummings for coverage, she wanted the extended time alone to listen to the music and reflect on the choices she had made in her own life.

Her decision to attend medical school, while it seemed to be proving the right one for her, was based on nothing more profound than the desire to emulate her father. Likewise, the decision to become a surgeon. If there was a single turning point in her life and her sense of herself, it was leaving surgery for pathology. At last she was no longer choosing paths merely because others were urging her to travel that way. Breaking her engagement to Joe DiMare — a man everyone, including her parents and many friends, deemed the perfect catch and perfect for her — underscored her evolution. It happened a year after completing her pathology residency. A year or so after that, she was dropping out of chamber-music groups and begging Kathy Wilson to teach her bluegrass.

At its most placid, her existence, like almost everyone else's, was unpredictable and frangible. Illness, accident, errors in judgment, errors in choices — they were all out there like boulders in a rapidly flowing river, along with the challenges of love, work, and relationships. The most she could do, she was finally learning, was to keep searching her own soul for who she was and what she wanted, to be fearless in making decisions, and to try to make every day matter.

The prim, white Baptist church was filling up when Nikki arrived. She was wearing a black linen pants suit with a sleeveless, silver silk blouse. But the day was already nearing eighty, and the crowd was dressed informally enough so that she carried the jacket over her arm.

Kathy's band greeted her warmly, as did Kathy's parents — Sam, a dairy farmer, and Kit, who made and sold quilts. They were severe, taciturn country people, their faces weary from the hardness of their lives, and even more so now from the death of their only child. Kathy had spoken of them with love and admiration, despite the differences in temperament and philosophy that had strained their relationship over the years.

Nikki was surprised when Kit asked her to walk with them along a dirt road that led past the church and through a broad, untended field. When she had called them after the postmortem exam, beyond some indirect questions as to whether or not Kathy was drinking or taking drugs when she was killed, neither parent seemed interested in any of the details of her health or the findings of the autopsy. Maybe the shock was too much for any clear thinking, but Nikki still saw no reason to answer questions they hadn't asked. They quickly made up their minds in favor of cremation and a memorial service, and that was that.

Now Nikki shuffled along between them, unable to fully fathom their loss.

"We thank you for comin' down," Kit said in a voice that was eerily like Kathy's.

"I miss her terribly," Nikki said. "She was a year younger than me, and I was the one who had spent my life in the big city, but she was so wise and so tuned in to life that I sometimes thought of her as an older sister."

"I understand. Even when she was real young she was sometimes like that for me, too."

"When I was first getting to know her, I played classical violin. I asked her if she could turn me into a bluegrass fiddle player. She said she would see. It wasn't that easy a decision. She picked me up the next evening and drove me way out into the country to this huge field. Then she set out a blanket, brought out some horrible-tasting apple whiskey in a flask, and a portable CD player. We stayed up way past dawn listening to one bluegrass performer after another and sipping that horrible stuff until it tasted like honey. In the morning, I was so badly bitten by mosquitoes that I could barely move. She didn't have a bite on her. Turns out she was swathed in bug repellent. She wanted to see if I got immersed enough in the music that I didn't notice I was being eaten alive. The next day she gave me my first lesson. Goodness, but she could play."

"We know," Kit said. "We know. Sometimes the Lord's ways are hidden from us until we are ready to understand and accept them." She guided her husband and Nikki back around toward the church, where Nikki could see the crowd continuing to build, then asked, "Nikki, Sam and I want to know, Kathy had the most beautiful face — an angel's face. Did the accident…? What I mean is…"

"Kit, she was beautiful at the end, too," Nikki said, willing away countless unpleasant images. "Two bones in her neck separated. That's why she died. Nothing else. Her face was completely spared."

"Thank God," Sam muttered. "She always insisted on cremation if'n anything ever happened ta her, so we felt we had ta do it."

Nikki accompanied Kathy's parents into the sanctuary and sat beside them during the service. They had asked her over the phone to speak at the service. Rather than deliver memories of her friend, which she simply wasn't sure she was strong enough to do, Nikki had chosen to read some of Kathy's poetry, along with the words to two songs whose melodies Kathy had not yet written. She had to stop several times to compose herself, but there was a strength and unabashed faith in the room that made anything she said or did feel right. The service lasted less than an hour and was so poignant, with hymns, readings, recollections, two cuts from Kathy's CDs, and a song by some friends and the band, that few eyes were dry by the time it was over.

The reception in the social hall adjacent to the church was much more of a celebration of Kathy's life and music than a memorial. With her band at the core, musicians came, played for a time, went, and came back again. Most of them were amateurs, yet all of them amazingly talented. Someone would name a tune or simply start playing, and instantly the others would join in. Nikki changed into jeans and sneakers, and brought her fiddle in from the car. She was still pretty much of a greenhorn by comparison to most of the others, but she managed to sit in on the jam for half an hour or so without disgracing herself, and played a lick in "Foggy Mountain Breakdown" that actually earned applause from the banjo player. Finally, mopping her brow with a handkerchief she kept in her case for just that purpose, she took a break and headed for the punch bowl.