Summer’s End

“Absolutely. I also spoke to your mother. And the doctor.”

“What’s his name?” She passed the information on to Marc as he gestured frantically for a pen. Chantal handed him hers. “When did they operate?”

“This morning, Paris time. Three hours ago, I believe. She’s a little better, they think, but she hadn’t yet regained consciousness. They’re mainly worried about her skull, and… and her legs.”

The tears had started to pour slowly down Marc-Edouard’s cheeks as he listened to Dominique. “I’ll send a wire. I’ll be there tonight.” He flashed the concierge. His orders were terse. “This is Duras. Get me on a plane. Paris. Immediately.” He hung up and wiped his face, looking strangely at Chantal.

“It’s Pilar?” she asked. He nodded. “Is it very bad?” She sat down on the couch next to him and took his hands.

“They don’t know. They don’t know…” He couldn’t bring himself to say the words, or to tell her that the motorcycle had been a gift from him, as the sobs began to convulse him.

* * *

Deanna got off the plane at Charles de Gaulle Airport in a cloud of exhaustion, terror, and nausea. She had spent the night staring straight ahead and clenching her hands. She called the hospital from the airport, but there was no news. Deanna hailed a taxi just outside the airport and sat silently as they sped along. She had given the driver the address of the American Hospital and told him only, “Aussi vite que possible.”

In true Gallic style, he took her at her word. The trees at the roadside were barely more than a green blur in the corners of Deanna’s eyes as she stared straight ahead of her, watching the driver’s maneuvers as he lunged and careened past every obstacle in sight. She could feel every pulse in her body, every throb of her heart… hurry… hurry…VITE! It seemed hours before they reached the Boulevard Victor Hugo and screeched to a halt in front of the big double doors. Deanna reached quickly into her wallet for the francs she had exchanged from dollars at the airport. Without thinking she handed him a hundred francs, and flung open the door.

“Votre monnaie?” He looked at her questioningly, and she shook her head. She didn’t give a damn about the change. Her lips were a tight, narrow line lost somewhere in the ivory agony of her face. He had understood from the first, when she had given him the address of the American Hospital. He had known. “Your husband?”

“Non. Ma fille.” Once again her eyes filled with tears.

The driver nodded in sympathetic chagrin. “Desolee.” He picked her small brown- leather valise off the seat and opened his door. He stood there for a moment, holding it, looking at her, wanting to say something more. He had a daughter too, and he could see the pain in Deanna’s eyes. His wife had looked like that once, when they had almost lost their son. He silently handed the bag to Deanna. Her eyes held his for only a fraction of a second, then she turned and strode rapidly into the hospital.

There was a sour-looking matron sitting at a desk.

“Oui, madame?”

“Pilar Duras. Her room number?” Oh, God, just her room number, please. Don’t let them tell me… don’t…

“Four-twenty-five.” Deanna wanted to let out a long anguished sigh. Instead, she only nodded curtly and followed the sign. There were two men and a woman on the elevator, going to other floors. They had the look of businesslike Europeans, maybe they were friends of patients, maybe husbands or wives, but none of them looked particularly shaken or upset. Deanna watched them enviously as she waited for her floor. The long, fear-filled plane ride was taking its toll. It had been a long sleepless night, and her thoughts had ricocheted from Pilar to Ben. What if she had let him come with her? She found herself longing for his arms, his warmth, his comfort, his support, and the gentleness of his words.

The elevator doors opened on four, and hesitantly she stepped out. There was a bustle of nurses, and in a few sedate little cliques she noticed elderly distinguished men; doctors. But suddenly, Deanna felt lost. She was six thousand miles from home, looking for a daughter who could even be dead. Suddenly, she wasn’t even sure if she could speak French anymore, or if she would ever find Pilar in that maze. Tears stung her eyes. She fought off a wave of dizziness and nausea, then slowly made her way to the desk.

“I’m looking for Pilar Duras. I’m her mother.” She didn’t even try it in French. She just couldn’t. She only prayed that someone would understand. Most of the nurses were French, but someone would speak English. Someone would know… someone would make it all better-would take her to Pilar, would show her that she wasn’t really that badly hurt…

“Duras?” The nurse seemed troubled as she looked up at Deanna, and then frowned at a chart. Everything inside Deanna turned first to jelly, then to stone. “Oh, yes.” She met Deanna’s eyes and nodded, wondering suddenly if the desperately pale woman trembling in front of her was ill. “Madame Duras?”

“Yes.” Deanna couldn’t manage more than a whisper. Suddenly every moment of the trip had caught up with her. She just couldn’t anymore. She even found herself wishing for Marc.

“Madame Duras, are you all right?” The young woman in the white uniform had a heavy accent but her English was fluent. Deanna only stared at her. Even she wasn’t quite sure. She felt very odd, as though she might faint.

“I have to… I think… May I sit down?” She looked around vaguely, and then watched in fascination while everything around her first turned gray, then shrank. It was like watching a slowly fading screen on a disgruntled television, as slowly… slowly… the picture just faded away. At last, all she heard was a hum. Then she felt a hand on her arm.

“Madame Duras? Madame Duras?” It was the same girl’s voice, and Deanna felt herself smile. She had such a pleasant young voice… such a pleasant… Deanna felt unbearably sleepy. All she wanted to do was drift away, but the hand kept tugging at her arm. Suddenly, there was something cool on her neck, and then her head. The picture returned to the screen. A dozen faces surrounded her, all looking down. She started to sit up, but a hand immediately restrained her, and two young men spoke urgently to each other in French. They wanted to transfer her to emergency, but Deanna rapidly shook her head.

“No, no, I’m fine. Really. I’ve just had a very long flight from San Francisco, and I haven’t eaten all day. Really, I’m just terribly tired and…” The tears welled up in her eyes again. She tried to will them away. Dammit, why did they want to take her to emergency? “I have to see my daughter. Pilar… Pilar Duras.”

The words seemed to stop them. The two young men stared at her, then nodded. They had understood. In a moment, with a hand at each elbow, she was on her feet, while a young nurse helped her straighten her skirt. Someone brought a chair, and the first nurse brought her a glass of water. A moment later the crowd had dispersed. Only the young nurse and the older one remained.

“I’m awfully sorry,” Deanna said.

“Of course not. You are very tired. You have had a long trip. We understand. In a moment we will take you to see Pilar.” The two nurses exchanged a glance, and the older one nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Thank you.” Deanna took another sip of water and handed back the glass. “Is Doctor Kirschmann here?” The nurse shook her head.

“He left earlier this afternoon. He was with Pilar all night. They performed surgery, you know.”

“On her legs?” Deanna felt herself trembling again.

“No. Her head.”

“Is she all right?”

There was an endless pause. “She is better. Come, you will see for yourself.” She stood aside to help her up, but Deanna was steady now and furious with herself for the time she had just wasted.

She was led down a long peach-colored hall and stopped at last at a white door. The nurse looked long and hard at Deanna, then slowly opened the door. Deanna took a few steps inside and felt the air freeze in her lungs. It was as though she could no longer breathe.

Pilar was wrapped in bandages, and covered with machinery and tubes. There was a severe-looking nurse sitting quietly in one corner, and at least three monitors were feeding out mysterious reports. Pilar herself was barely visible through the bandages, and her face was badly distorted by the various tubes.