Danielle Steel: The Promise

“None.” Marion spoke the word like a death sentence. It was the worst thing she could say of anyone.

“Then she won't have many alternatives. I'm afraid the men who do this kind of thing don't do it for charity.”

“Do you have anyone particular in mind?”

“Well, I know some of the names. Two, actually. The best one is out in San Francisco.” A little fire kindled in Dr. Wickfield's heart With all her money, Marion Hillyard could … if only … “His name is Peter Gregson. We met several years ago. He's really an amazing guy.”

“Could he do this?”

Wickfield felt a rush of admiration for the woman. He almost wanted to hug her, but he didn't dare. “He may well be the only man who could. Shall I… do you want me to call him?” He hesitated to say the words, and then she looked at him with those cold, calculating eyes and he wondered what she had in mind. The wave of admiration almost turned to fear.

“I'll let you know.”

“Fine.” He looked at his watch then, and stood up.

“I'd like you to go downstairs and rest now. I really mean that.”

“I know.” She favored him with a wintry smile. “But I'm not going to. You know that too. I have to be with Michael.”

“Even if you kill yourself doing it?”

“I won't. I'm too mean to die, Wicky. Besides, I still have a lot of work to do.”

“Is it worth it?” He looked at her curiously for a moment. If he had had one tenth of her ambition, he would have been a great surgeon, but he didn't and he wasn't. And he wasn't even sure that he envied her. “Is it worth it?” He said it more softly the second time, and she nodded.

“Absolutely. Don't ever doubt it for a second. It's given me everything I want out of life.” Unless I lose Michael. She closed her eyes and pushed away the thought.

“Well, I'll give you another hour with him, and then I'm coming back up here. And I don't care if I have to shoot you with Nembutal and drag you away myself, you're going. Is that dear?”

“Very.” She stood up, dropped another cigarette to the floor where she crushed it, and patted his cheek. “And Wicky—” She looked up at him from under long chestnut lashes, and for a moment she was all softness and elegant beauty. “—thank you.” He gently kissed her cheek, squeezed her arm, and stood back for a moment.

“He'll be all right, Marion, you'll see.” He didn't dare mention the girl again. They could talk about that later. He only smiled and walked away, as she stood there looking vulnerable and alone. He was glad he had called George Calloway a few hours before. Marion needed someone with her. He thought about her all the way down the corridor, as she stood watching him go. She hadn't moved from the spot where he had left her, and then slowly, she began the lonely walk up the hall, back towards Michael's room, past open doors and closed ones, heartbreaks to come and hopes never to be known again. And a few who would make it. This was a floor set aside for the critically ill, and there was no sound from any of the rooms as she walked slowly by, until she was halfway down the hall, where she heard little jerking sobs come from an open door. The sounds were so soft that at first she wasn't sure what she was hearing. And then she saw the room number, and she knew. She stopped as though she had come to a wall, staring at the door, and the darkness beyond.

She could see the bed dimly outlined in the comer, but the room was dark; all blinds and curtains had been drawn, as though the patient could not be touched by light. Marion stood there for a long moment, afraid to go in, but knowing that she had to; and then slowly, one foot after the other, softly, gliding, she walked a few feet into the room and stopped again. The sobs were a little louder now, and coming at quicker intervals, with little panicky gasps.

“Is someone there?” The girl's entire head was covered with bandages, and the voice was muffled and strange. “Is someone …” She cried harder now. “I can't see.”

“Your eyes are Just covered with bandages. There's nothing wrong with your eyes.” But the words were met by fresh sobs. “Why are you awake?” Marion spoke to her in a monotone. They were not words of reassurance, they were devoid of all feeling, and Marion herself felt as though she were standing in a dream. But she knew that she had to be there. Had to. For Michael's sake. “Didn't they give you something to make you sleep?”

“It doesn't work. I keep waking up.”

“Is the pain very bad?”

“No, everything is numb. Who … who are you?”

She was afraid to tell her. Instead, she moved toward the bed and sat down in the narrow blue vinyl chair the nurse must have pulled up next to it. The girl's hands were wrapped in bandages, too, and lay useless at her sides. Marion remembered Wicky telling her that the girl had naturally used her hands to try to shield her face. The damage to them was almost as great as to her face, which would be devastating to her as an artist. In essence, her whole life was over. Her youth, her beauty, her work. And her romance. But now Marion knew what she had to say.

“Nancy—” It was the first time she had said the name, but now it didn't matter. She had no choice. “Did they …” Her voice was smooth and silky as she sat next to the broken girl. “Did they tell you about your face?” There was total silence in the room for an endless amount of time, and then a small broken sob freed itself from the bandages. “Did they tell you how bad it was?” Her stomach turned over as she said the words, but she could not stop now. She had to free Michael. If she freed him, he would live. She felt that in her guts. “Did they tell you how impossible it would be to put you back together?”

The sobs were angry now. “They lied to me. They said …”

“There's only one man who can do it, Nancy, and it would cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. You can't afford it. And neither can Michael.'”

“I'd never let him do that.” She was angry at the voice now, as well as at fate. “I'd never let him … ”

“Then what will you do?”

“I don't know.” And the sobs began again.

“Could you face him like that?” It took minutes for the stifled “no” to emerge. “Do you think he would love you like that? Even if he tried, because he felt some bond of loyalty, some obligation, how long could it last? How long could you bear knowing what you looked like and what you were doing to him?” The sounds Nancy made now were frightening. She sounded as though she were going to be sick, and Marion wondered if she herself would be as well. “Nancy, there's nothing left of you. Nothing. There's nothing left of the life you had before today.” They sat in interminable silence, and Marion thought she would hear those sobs forever. But it had to be painful or it would never work. “You've already lost him. You couldn't do this to him. And he … he deserves better than that. If you love him, you know that. And … and so do you. But you could have a new life, Nancy.” The girl didn't even bother to answer as her sobs went on. “You could have a new life. A whole new world.” She waited until the sobs grew angrier again and then stopped. “A whole new face.”

“How?”

“There's a man in San Francisco who could make you beautiful again. Who could make you able to paint again. It would take a long time, and a lot of money, but it would be worth it, Nancy … wouldn't it?” There was the tiniest of smiles at the corners of Marion's mouth. Now she was on familiar ground. It was just like making a multimillion-dollar deal. A hundred-million-dollar deal. They were all the same.

A small jagged sigh emerged from the faceless bandages. “We can't afford it.” Marion almost shuddered at the “we.” They were not a “we” anymore. They never had been. She and Michael were the “we.” Not this… this … She took a deep breath and composed herself. She had work to do. That was the only way she could think of it. She couldn't think of the girl. Only of Michael.