The Queen of Hearts(65)
The entrance to the Catacombs from the academic building was right next to the conference room in which we sat, so we could hear Dr. Elsdon approaching well before he pushed open the door to the reception area. He had a characteristic canter that did not seem to be diminished by today’s events, whatever they might have been. And since he generally barreled around with an entourage, it was impossible for him to sneak up on anyone. It sounded like they might have been charging in on horseback. As the footsteps got closer, it was plain he was in fact not alone; judging by the noise level, there were at least a couple of people trying to keep up.
When he finally did appear, he was quiet, pausing at Mrs. Lukeson’s desk to murmur something to her and to introduce his companions. Emma, who had a better view through the open conference room doorway than I did, stiffened in surprise. “It’s Dr. X,” she hissed.
I craned my neck. It was indeed Nick. Unlike us, he was still on the trauma service, since the chiefs did their rotations in three-month blocks. He must have caught sight of my movement, because he turned and looked directly at me. His face was unreadable. There was also a woman with them whom I did not recognize. She had frizzy gray hair and was evidently unconcerned with fashion; she was wearing a dress resembling a bathrobe made from some bluish pilled material. Dr. Elsdon turned and saw the three of us staring in his direction, and he at once made for the conference room, sweeping in with Nick and the bathrobe woman behind him. Nick closed the door.
“I must apologize to you for the long wait,” Dr. Elsdon said, his alert face scanning us. “Of course we did not intend for your first day of emergency medicine to begin this way. I’d like to introduce you to Dr. X—one of the fifth-year surgery residents and our current trauma chief—and this is Reverend Ania, our hospital chaplain. I apologize again because I haven’t learned your names yet. Normally, I take care to get to know you all well during my month with you.”
“Of course, it’s fine,” said James. “I’m James DeMarco.”
“Zadie Fletcher,” I said.
“Then you must be Emma Bingham,” said Dr. Elsdon, addressing her. She nodded.
“James, Zadie, Emma. Thank you for your patience. This is difficult. Ah. I don’t think we’ve ever before . . . Well, anyway. There is no easy way to say this so I’ll just come out with it: one of your classmates has died.”
Why Dr. Elsdon felt it necessary to insert a dramatic pause here was beyond me. We waited in agony for him to get on with it. He looked at Nick, but Nick threw the ball back to him, gazing at him impassively. A fleeting expression of something—distaste? resignation? sadness?—crossed his face. Dr. Elsdon cleared his throat and said:
“Graham O’Kane.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
THE FAMILY BED
Emma, Present Day
Although I should have been rehearsing what in the world I’d say to Boyd and Betsy Packard to explain the death of their child on my watch, it wasn’t them on my mind as I crunched through the golden leaves on my way home from the basketball game. It was Graham.
This time of year was always bittersweet. In the Carolinas, nature gifts us with perfect fall weather: the languid, sticky days of summer give way to bright, invigorating air, showered with crimson and orange and gold, doused in crisp sunshine. Ordinarily, it’s hard not to feel happy.
But all the beauty also accentuates the imperviousness of nature, because to me, the heralds of autumn are also searing reminders of shame. Graham, the first man who ever loved me, died in the fall, on a perfect day like this one.
I often thought about what would have happened if he had lived. Would he have forgiven me? Would we still be together? By the time I met Wyatt, most of my fertile years were behind me. Of course, I can’t imagine life without Wyatt and my son. But would I have had other children, more children, if I had married Graham?
“Do you want kids?” I’d asked him once, leaning against him on a bench in the quad, where we were taking a break from a marathon cram for some examination or other.
“Of course,” he answered promptly, his face relaxing into unguarded happiness. “I love kids. I want a little girl like you and a little boy like . . . you.”
“Me?”
He laughed. “Yeah. Like their mom. You’re perfect.”
I sat up in alarm. “I don’t even want kids, Graham. How can you see me as a mother? I’m clearly not mother material.”
“I have a perfect visual image of you as a mom, Em.” He turned to me, serious. “I can see you kneeling by some little girl, showing her the stars, or holding her on your lap as you explain how gravity works, and I can see the wonder on her face. You’ll just . . . re-create your genius in a smaller form. Another tiny, brilliant, beautiful Emma. Or two.”
I almost choked, thinking back on it now. That conversation had taken place a few months before a gunshot blast to the chest ended his life, and I could hardly stand to think of the juxtaposition between his happy confidence that someday he’d have kids and the immutable reality of his death. He’d been so comfortable, so sure he’d one day be a father. While he had envisioned his children as clones of me, I hadn’t envisioned children at all. I didn’t know any small children at that point in my life, and I didn’t feel any strong pull toward acquiring one. But if you’d forced me to picture it, I guess I’d have described someone like him. Sturdy. Contemplative. Quietly sunny.