Danielle Steel - The Kiss

Cynthia couldn't get the sound of the girls crying out of her head, so she put on a bathrobe over Bill's pajamas and walked down the hall to see them. She just wanted to give them a hug, and reassure them. And in the end, she sat down and spent a half hour with them. It was nearly five A.M. when she finally left them and went back to Bill's room. She lay there and cried into the pillow that still smelled of him, and she didn't fall asleep until six o'clock Friday morning.

When Cynthia awoke later that morning, she called the hospital to check on Bill, and they told her nothing had changed during the night. His vital signs were a little more stable than they had been, but he was still deeply unconscious. It was eleven in the morning by then, and Cindy felt as though she had been beaten with lead pipes all night. She checked on the girls, letting herself quietly into their room, and she found that they were still asleep. She went back to her own room, bathed and dressed, and shortly before noon, she was ready to go back to the hospital. She hated to wake the girls, and left them a note instead. She left it in their room, and told them she'd call from the hospital to let them know how their father was doing. She went downstairs to the car they had waiting for her, and gave the driver the address. And he talked about the accident on the way. The driver who had been killed had been one of his best friends. He told Cynthia how sorry he was about her husband, and she thanked him.

She found things much the same once she got to the hospital, and settled into the waiting room after talking to him for a while. She was waiting to see one of Bill's doctors. And as she sat there, she saw a man walk by. He was tall and distinguished looking, wearing a well-cut suit, and he had an aristocratic air of command that instantly caught her eye. He stopped to speak to the nurses at the desk, and she saw them shake their heads and look at him with a discouraged expression. His mouth set in a grim line, and he disappeared down the hall then, in the direction of Bill's room.

Cynthia couldn't help wondering what had brought him here. And later, she saw him come out of a room across the hall from Bill's, and come back to speak to one of the doctors in the hall. And then he left again, but Cynthia had the impression that he was locked in the same agonizing waiting game she was trapped in, waiting to see what would happen to someone severely ill. And she didn't know why, but she thought there was something odd about him. He seemed extremely uncomfortable in the intensive care ward, and she sensed both resistance and anger in him, as though he was deeply resentful that he had to be there at all. He seemed restless and awkward and ill at ease. She commented on it to one of the nurses when she went back into the room to see Bill.

What Cynthia didn't know then was that Isabelle had taken a turn for the worse, and they had just told Gordon that his wife's situation had become markedly less hopeful. Her numerous injuries were getting the best of her, and she was slipping deeper into the coma. They had decided not to operate again, they were certain that she couldn't withstand further trauma to her system. And he had gone back to the hotel, to call his office and wait for further news. He told his secretary he was staying in London over the weekend, without saying why, and then he called Teddy's nurses to check on him. Suddenly, he felt extraordinarily burdened by the responsibility of his son. He had never had to deal with any of that before. And he said nothing to Teddy, or the nurse, about his mother's situation. But Gordon was not pleased that these responsibilities had suddenly fallen on him.

He told the boy he'd be gone for the weekend, and that he was in London with his mom.

“Mommy said she was coming home yesterday,” he said, sounding disappointed. “Why is she staying?”

“Because she has things to do here, that's why,” Gordon snapped at him, but his brusqueness didn't surprise Teddy. His father had never had any interest or patience to offer him.

“She didn't call me. Will you ask her to call me?” Teddy sounded faintly plaintive, and Gordon was irritated. His nerves were suddenly on edge, and he had no satisfactory explanation for Teddy about why his mother hadn't called him.

“She'll call you eventually. She has things to do with me,” he lied to the boy, but he felt he had no other choice. And right now, lying to him was far kinder than telling him the truth. Teddy was too frail to even hear the truth about what had happened, particularly at this distance. If he had to be told eventually, Gordon intended to do so in person, with the boy's doctor present. And Gordon hadn't called Sophie yet either. He wanted to see how things developed. There was no point terrifying them, and if she was going to die without regaining consciousness anyway, he didn't think Sophie should see her. He had made that decision that morning.

“Tell Mommy I love her,” Teddy said as his father rushed him off the phone. He was not enjoying the conversation. He didn't like lying to the boy, nor did he want to tell him what had happened to Isabelle.

And shortly after that, Gordon went back to the hospital himself to see her. When he arrived, he stood in the farthest corner of the room, looking agonized, and observed a variety of things they were doing to her. And unlike Cynthia Robinson with Bill, he did not approach, didn't speak, and never touched her. His revulsion was so great, he simply could not deal with it.

“Would you like a moment alone with your wife?” one of the nurses asked him gently. He looked so uncomfortable that she felt sorry for him.

But Gordon didn't hesitate when he answered. “No, thank you. She can't hear me anyway. I'll be in the waiting room, please call me if anything changes.” And with that he escaped, and went to sit in the waiting room with Olivia and Jane. Cynthia came to check on them after a while, and Gordon had no idea who they were, nor did he care. And he was surprised when Cynthia smiled at him. She looked tired and pale. And she had spilled something on her T-shirt, but the look in her eyes was sympathetic to him.

“I'm sorry about your wife,” she said, she had heard the nurses talk about her, and knew only that she was in a situation even more critical than Bill's. But they had said very little about it to her.

“Thank you,” Gordon said tersely. He had no desire to develop friendships in the waiting room of the intensive care ward. But he didn't want to sit in the horror of Isabelle's room either. He had nowhere else to go except back to Claridge's, which he'd been contemplating when Cindy spoke to him. And then much to his surprise, she held out a hand to him and introduced herself. She could hear that he was American, and felt a strange bond to him. They were both far from home, trapped in desperate situations.

“I'm Cynthia Robinson,” she said simply as one of her daughters dozed, and the other was engrossed in a magazine she had bought in the lobby of the hospital. Neither of them seemed to be paying attention to Cynthia or Gordon. But Gordon's eyes widened in obvious recognition the moment he heard her name, and Cynthia noticed it. “I'm here with my husband. He had a car accident two days ago. We just flew in last night.” He wondered, as he listened to her, if she had a full grasp of their situation. If she did, it didn't seem to upset her. All she seemed to be worrying about was her husband's condition, which Gordon thought was gracious of her. He was far more concerned about what might have brought them together than she was. And Gordon decided to be frank with her.

“I assume you're aware of the fact that my wife was in the car with your husband when the bus hit them.” As he said it, she looked as though the bus had just hit her. And he suddenly realized from the look on her face that no one had told her about Isabelle. She was rendered speechless by what Gordon had just said to her.