"Well, one fabulous way is to start at
fourteen putting nothing—nothing—in your mouth but beer." He opened the
door and held it for Preston , and they walked down the corridor toward
the lecture room. "She knows what it'll be like. Both her parents went
that way: confusion, disorientation, hallucinations—they come from ammonia the
liver won't process—then maybe coma, maybe not, then probably esophageal
varices."
''A what?"
"The liver can't handle anything more, so
it shunts it all by. All the blood goes up through the esophagus. Basically,
you puke away your life blood. All of it."
Jesus Christ! Preston felt his blood draining into his shoes.
They reached the door to the lecture room, and Preston leaned against the jamb and took a deep
breath. He saw Lewis looking at him, concerned, and he tried to smile.
"It's been a long day."
Lewis nodded. "Sensory overload. You've
heard about taking life one day at a time? Cheryl's a little girl who has no
choice. All the shrinks can do is help her appreciate every day as a gift. Not
so easy v/hen you hate yourself so much for trying to kill yourself that you
feel like . . . killing yourself." Lewis paused and looked at Preston —gray, weak, clutching the dooijamb. He
winked and said, "Isn't it beautiful? I told you: It makes Mozart's gift
seem almost . . . well, pedestrian."
VII
THE BLACK Daimler circled the roundabout with
the silent grace of a crocodile and stopped before the front door of the
clinic. The chauffeur got out, tugged at his jacket to erase the wrinkles from
the shoulders, and opened one of the back doors.
A young woman stepped out of the car and,
while the chauffeur went to the trunk to fetch her suitcase, stared at the
simple adobe building. She wore sunglasses, though night was well on its way
and stars could already be seen in the violet sky. Her long blond hair gleamed
against her navy blue cashmere sweater. She had not known how to dress for the
occasion, so she had taken her mother's advice—"Make believe it's a
regular hospital, darling. Wear something simple and understated, something
that won't say too much"—and had worn a white silk blouse, a pleated linen
skirt and medium-heel navy pumps to match the sweater. She had left her jewelry
at home, all except her signet pinkie ring and her gold Rolex.
"It's cold," she said.
"Only at night." The chauffeur shut
the trunk. "I don't imagine you'll have much call to be outside at
night."
"No."
Carrying the suitcase, the chauffeur started
toward the building, but the young woman took a couple of quick steps and
caught up with him and put a hand on his arm.
"I'll take it," she said. "I'd
rather."
"Of course." He handed her the
suitcase and tipped his hat and said, "Good luck, Miss 'Cilia."
"Thank you, Simpson. For
everything."
The lobby was empty; the two offices on the
left were dark. A light shone in an office to the right, so she set her
suitcase down and walked to the office door. A large woman in a white uniform
sat at a desk, making notes on a file in a manila folder. She sensed a presence
at the door and looked up.
"Hello, dearie." She grinned.
"Checking in?"
The young woman nodded, and the nurse gestured
to a chair beside her desk.
"I'm Nurse Bridget. And you're . . . ?"
"Godfrey . . . Priscilla Godfrey?"
"Oh yes." She opened a drawer and
searched for an admission form.
Priscilla noticed an ashtray on the nurse's
desk. She opened her purse, took a
fourteen putting nothing—nothing—in your mouth but beer." He opened the
door and held it for Preston , and they walked down the corridor toward
the lecture room. "She knows what it'll be like. Both her parents went
that way: confusion, disorientation, hallucinations—they come from ammonia the
liver won't process—then maybe coma, maybe not, then probably esophageal
varices."
''A what?"
"The liver can't handle anything more, so
it shunts it all by. All the blood goes up through the esophagus. Basically,
you puke away your life blood. All of it."
Jesus Christ! Preston felt his blood draining into his shoes.
They reached the door to the lecture room, and Preston leaned against the jamb and took a deep
breath. He saw Lewis looking at him, concerned, and he tried to smile.
"It's been a long day."
Lewis nodded. "Sensory overload. You've
heard about taking life one day at a time? Cheryl's a little girl who has no
choice. All the shrinks can do is help her appreciate every day as a gift. Not
so easy v/hen you hate yourself so much for trying to kill yourself that you
feel like . . . killing yourself." Lewis paused and looked at Preston —gray, weak, clutching the dooijamb. He
winked and said, "Isn't it beautiful? I told you: It makes Mozart's gift
seem almost . . . well, pedestrian."
VII
THE BLACK Daimler circled the roundabout with
the silent grace of a crocodile and stopped before the front door of the
clinic. The chauffeur got out, tugged at his jacket to erase the wrinkles from
the shoulders, and opened one of the back doors.
A young woman stepped out of the car and,
while the chauffeur went to the trunk to fetch her suitcase, stared at the
simple adobe building. She wore sunglasses, though night was well on its way
and stars could already be seen in the violet sky. Her long blond hair gleamed
against her navy blue cashmere sweater. She had not known how to dress for the
occasion, so she had taken her mother's advice—"Make believe it's a
regular hospital, darling. Wear something simple and understated, something
that won't say too much"—and had worn a white silk blouse, a pleated linen
skirt and medium-heel navy pumps to match the sweater. She had left her jewelry
at home, all except her signet pinkie ring and her gold Rolex.
"It's cold," she said.
"Only at night." The chauffeur shut
the trunk. "I don't imagine you'll have much call to be outside at
night."
"No."
Carrying the suitcase, the chauffeur started
toward the building, but the young woman took a couple of quick steps and
caught up with him and put a hand on his arm.
"I'll take it," she said. "I'd
rather."
"Of course." He handed her the
suitcase and tipped his hat and said, "Good luck, Miss 'Cilia."
"Thank you, Simpson. For
everything."
The lobby was empty; the two offices on the
left were dark. A light shone in an office to the right, so she set her
suitcase down and walked to the office door. A large woman in a white uniform
sat at a desk, making notes on a file in a manila folder. She sensed a presence
at the door and looked up.
"Hello, dearie." She grinned.
"Checking in?"
The young woman nodded, and the nurse gestured
to a chair beside her desk.
"I'm Nurse Bridget. And you're . . . ?"
"Godfrey . . . Priscilla Godfrey?"
"Oh yes." She opened a drawer and
searched for an admission form.
Priscilla noticed an ashtray on the nurse's
desk. She opened her purse, took a
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