Chapter 16

16

T he music was audible as soon as Louis entered the iron gates and turned down the lane towards the house, a somewhat crumbling old manor that was set far back from the street and encased in tall oak trees. This was probably how the party was able to carry on in full force without incurring a neighborly call to the police.

There were a few people outside the house, and one or two of them nodded at Louis. As soon as he walked through the door, Mitchell and Sandeep hailed him in an inebriated pitch. “Louis. You made it, man.” He gave a small wave and walked over to Max and shook his hand.

“You got here just in time,” Max said. “I was starting to run out.”

“My dad wanted me to have dinner with Manon Duprey. I couldn’t leave until we were finished.”

Max whistled. “Is she just as hot in person? You’re a lucky dude.”

“Yeah, but she’s dating my father, so—”

A girl fell into Louis, laughing as she was pulled to her feet again. He tugged his beer-soaked shirt away from his bare skin and tried to wring it out.

“Hi, Louis.” Another girl with straight blond hair walked up to him, her skin tanned from makeup, her voice flirty. “I’ve never seen you at any of these parties before.” He didn't recognize her.

“I’ve been to one or two,” he mumbled, torn between surprise and annoyance.

“What?” she yelled over the music. She fell forward into him.

“I’ve been to a few,” he said more loudly. He glanced around, desperate to leave her company and find a place where he could get his hands on a drink, anything that would give him something to do. He didn’t see the bar from where he stood, so he stayed put.

“So,” she said with a glinting smile, her breath a combination of beer and cigarettes. “What do you say you and I head upstairs and find someplace to talk and get to know each other better?” She linked her arm through his, and added, unnecessarily, “If you know what I mean.”

Louis looked her over. He was sure she didn’t attend Fenley, though she seemed to know a lot of people at the party. Even in the muted lighting, there was something repellent about her. He realized with dim surprise that he wasn't even interested in a one-night fling with her. He shook his head and pulled his arm away.

“He may be the son of a viscount,” she said to no one in particular as she walked away, “but he’s still a loser.”

Sandeep jerked his head towards the departing figure. “She’s from Sartrouville. I have no idea who invited her. Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you a drink.”

Louis turned to Max. “I’ll be right back.”

Max had a satellite of girls around him, but he didn’t seem interested in any of them. He was watching what happened at the party with a keen eye. To anyone but a casual observer, it was obvious he was the one who kept all the plates spinning. “Make it quick,” he said.

When Louis returned moments later, one drink downed, the other in hand, Max immediately disengaged from the girls and signaled with two fingers for Louis to follow. They walked up the winding staircase, carpeted with a faded oriental rug, and continueddown a hallway decorated in shabby chic, with old wallpaper and well-chosen frames. Max stopped, and rapped on the door in front of him.

“ Entre .” a voice called from within, but Max was blocked from pushing the door open by a meaty hand. “It’s just me,” he said with a tinge of impatience.

Inside, the room was dark with a red lava lamp in motion, which was strangely compelling to Louis in his altered state. He hadn’t taken anything strong, but he smoked some pot on his way to the party to calm his nerves. He had beentempted to use the little red pill that now made a regular appearance in his stash, and which he had learned was speed, but he wanted to save it for next week when the exams would start. He was just starting to understand how to use the drugs properly, and the knowledge made him feel wordly and grown up. The speed helpedhim to maintain good grades and get things done, and the pot—or hash, whichever he had on hand—kepthim mellowand cool so he could talk to people without fear.

“Louis is here with the supply,” Max said, crisply. “Move over. And you—give me that scale. Let’s bring it out and weigh it."

Louis opened the backpack full of various packets, wrapped in plastic. His supply had increased, as had his acceptance in the crowd, just as Jean had predicted. Now that he had promised that favor to Jean—still didn’t know what it was, but he was assured it was nothing illegal—he was able to get a certain amount of drugs for free. This had become necessary since his father didn’t exactly give him an unlimited allowance, Louis thought with disgust. As if he didn’t have it .

Max watched with an eagle eye as Louis brought the packets out, one by one. He said, more to himself than to Louis, “I don’t know why the dealer insists on using you to bring the supply when I’m the one with all the contacts. He could save himself time and money.” Louis only shrugged, mellowed by the combination of vodka and pot.

When the money had been counted and tucked in the inside pocket of his bag, Louis had the vague idea he should head straight home and put the money in a safe place. He started walking down the stairs, taking his time to stop and look at the paintings with a fixed interest.

“Good evening, Louis,” he heard someone say. “Louis.” The voice was now lilting, brimming with laughter. He turned and faced a girl he recognized from his history class. Her dark brown hair was cut short to frame her face, and he had never seen such beautiful, large brown eyes as the ones that were raised tohis at that instant.

“Eloise,” he managed.

“Ah, good. You’re not completely stoned then.” She smiled at him, and he continued to stare at her face, fascinated by the multitude of colors reflected in her eyes.

Her dimples peeped out at this, and she concluded with slightly raised eyebrows. “All right, then. Take care, Louis.” She turned to walk up the stairs and only glanced back at him once before walking down the hallway. He was relieved to see she headed into the bathroom instead of going into the room where Max was. He thought hazily that he would wait for her to come back down. In any case, it was so pleasant on the stairwell, he saw no reason to move.

Charles marched through the hospital doors. He was unable to explain, even to himself, why he was at the hospital again when his week of filling in was over. He had already handed all his patients over to Docteur Toussaint, except young Whitmore. He told himself he was particularly interested in how this case was progressing from a medical point of view, curious as to how the young boy would fare cognitively once he woke up. He found himself anxiously hoping for the best—for the mother’s sake, as well as the boy’s.

“Bonjour, Samuel.” Charles smiled at the intern as he walked by.

“Bonjour, monsieur.” The young man didn’t dare jump to a first-name basis though his mentor had assured him it was fine. Samuel ran to catch up. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon, but I’m glad you came in. I have a progress report for you to sign if you have a minute?"

Charles glanced at the door just ahead where his patient was and stopped in his tracks. “Sure. Let’s go do that now.” They walked side by side in the direction of the small office Charles had borrowed during his short stay, and turned into it. Charles skirted the desk and gestured to the chair in front of it. Taking the paper that was handed to him, he pulled a pen out of the square holder full of blue glass pebbles and skimmed its contents.

“How’s it going for you here?” He kept thequestion purposefully open-ended.

“Good,” Samuel answered firmly. “I feel less hassled and…ignorant”—here he chuckled—“than I did the first week or two.”

“Have you given more thought to a specialty?” His mentor ran his finger down the page of ratings, and skimmed the questions at the bottom.

“I’m definitely interested in pursuing neurology, although I’m not yet sure whether I want to pursue pediatric.” Samuel paused, looking down. “This may make me sound weak, but I’m not sure I have it in me. The sight of the children suffering is harder than I expected. Or—there’s something about a parent’s fear and grief that’s magnified compared to other patients’ family members. You know, Thomas, for instance. Every time I go into his room, I see this despair on his mother’s face, even though she attempts to remain cheerful. It’s hard to see.”

Charles didn’t answer as he checked off several ratings and scribbled notes in answer to each of the questions. He paused over the last one, wrote something, then capped the pen and put it back. “You’ll be a good doctor,” he said. “You have a heart. However, you’re wise to know your limits. Not everyone can handle pediatrics. We all have a cap to our effectiveness that’s linked to our personality and, I suppose, our level of humanity.” He gave a crooked smile— “of which some seem to think I have none.”

“Isabelle would not agree to that,” Samuel said, roundly, with an unaccustomed allusion to their personal connection. Charles simply smiled, and handed him the report.

When he walked into Thomas’s room, Chastity was occupying her usual spot. She looked surprised to see him, but pleased. “Any changes?” He walked over to take a look at the chart.

“It seems so,” she said. “Docteur Toussaint is encouraged—and so am I—that Thomas seems to be opening his eyes for longer stretches of time. There seems to be more of a deliberateness to his movements too." Her eyes twinkled. "I think he’s bent on getting the IV tubes out.”

Charles read the patient’s chart, noting the same progress recorded that she spoke of. “This is good news. I’m pleased to hear it. I hope, of course, that we might start to see some changes now, but it’s impossible to predict when these will happen, and what the final outcome will be.”

“I know,” Chastity said, “but I cannot give up hope.”

“And you should not,” he replied, firmly. He studied her closely now, something he didn’t often let himself do. Her already slim frame was thinner than it was weeks ago, but she was starting to have some bloom to her cheeks again. He was distracted by the curly locks that were always falling from her loose chignon, and how she tucked them behind her ear. She wore the same frail pendant earrings every day that swung back and forth as she talked.

Realizing he’d been staring, Charles shuffled the papers in his hands. “You look well.”

“I am well.” Her smile brightened and lit up her face. “I have good news.” Charles drew his eyebrows together, wondering if the good news had something to do with this father of Thomas’s that he had met only once—who had not left him with a favorable impression.

His expression must have been forbidding because she flushed suddenly and looked down. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. It’s only that my mother is coming to France.” When he heard this, the pressure in his chest eased.

“I never thought she’d be able to get away because she works with my father in the dry cleaning business. She handles all the accounting aspects, and my dad can’t function without her. But one of his retired friends, who’s a whiz at numbers, offered to take her place.” Her voice was tremulous, despite her grin.

“I’m glad to hear it. This kind of support is just what you need.”

“It’s true.” Her voice throbbed with suppressed emotion. “I’ve been trying to keep my strength up for Thomas, you know, and even though I’m grateful to Maude and Elizabeth—” Chastity smiled at him, “—and to you, I would love not to have to be so strong all the time.” Charles nodded thoughtfully, mesmerized by the delicate angle of her chin. She tilted her face when she was saying something vulnerable.

He realized he was staring again. “When does she arrive?”

“Next week.” In a burst of good humor, Chastity walked over and kissed Thomas on the cheek. He fluttered his eyelids and both of them watched him intently, but he didn’t move again after that.

“Can I bring you a coffee?” Charles offered, as he had done the few times since he brought her that first delicious espresso.

“I would love one,” she answered,warmly. Her smile was reflected in her expressive eyes, and when she looked at him like that, he couldn’t see any resemblance between this woman and the one who taught his son—the one he had thought of as a shrew.

When Charles returned, he handed her one of the tiny white porcelain cups but stopped short. “I’m sorry. I forgot the sugar.”

“Oh, stay—I’ll run and get one from the nurse’s station.” Chastity’s voice was almost merry. “They keep a stash there and have always encouraged me to help myself. They are so good to me.”

She walked off lightly, coffee in hand, and Charles went over to Thomas and set his cup down on the bedside table. “Thomas.” He jostled the small arm carefully. “Thomas. Your mother wants to see you.”

There was no response. He nudged him again more firmly, but his words were caressing. “Thomas. Open your eyes.”

There was a sigh, and Thomas opened his eyes; but he stared, unfocused, at the ceiling. “That’s better, Thomas. Can you see me? I’m Docteur de Brase.”

The boy's eyes seemed to focus for a second, but then stared ahead, unseeing. Charles sat on the side of his bed, and held his hand. “Thomas, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand.”

There was a pause, and then, “Very good, Thomas. You did it. That was a strong squeeze too.” He grinned.

He heard the crash and turned towards the noise, Thomas’s hand still in his. Chastity stood in the doorwayin mute astonishment, her gaze going from Charles to her son, the porcelain cup shattered at her feet.