Dear Deceiver(9)

She had expected at least a short wait, but there was none. The doctor  came at once and took possession of the sister's office in order to  speak privately.

'I take it you know the position, Miss Desmond. It would be wrong of me  to give you false hope.' His tone was to the point, but his eyes were  not unfeeling.

It struck a new note of apprehension. His expression, the hand he had  laid on her shoulder-did he not know the position? But perhaps he was  not the doctor in whom Paul had confided.

She asked awkwardly: 'Mr. Freeman talked to someone about me yesterday. I gather, doctor, it wasn't you?'

'It was. Why shouldn't it have been?' Again the look was kindly. 'I  know. You've a conscience about the past. Forget it. You're here now and  that's the main thing.'

'But did Mr. Freeman not explain...'

'Not to me. Why should he?' the doctor questioned reasonably.  'Explanations aren't my province, and they're not your mother's either  at this stage. You must be prepared for a big change in her.' He went on  to give details. The operation had revealed irreparable brain damage.  Complete recovery was impossible. A vegetable existence with partial  paralysis and severe impairment of sight was the most that could be  hoped for.

'Hoped for?' Haidee echoed.

'I agree. But that's not up to us. I'll take you to her.' He rose.

'But I...' Slowly but remorselessly it seemed the net was closing,  drawing her in, turning her into Suzanne Desmond-and without Paul and  the explanation he had promised to give she couldn't do it. 'I don't  think-' she stammered. 'How long is this likely to last?' It was a  bungling question, wretchedly selfish, wretchedly stupid.

'I can't tell you that, Miss Desmond. I'm not God.' The doctor's face  and tone hardened perceptibly. 'Your mother is conscious now and  expecting you. Do you want me to tell her you've been prevented from  coming?'

It registered sharply that she was asking too much of the hospital. What  right had she after all to involve them? With Paul gone the choice was  hers and hers alone.

Slowly she shook her head. 'No, Doctor, please take me to her.'

'You asked how long this would last,' the doctor said as they walked  along the corridor. 'In my opinion your mother will become comatose  again and remain so until her heart gives up the struggle. It could be  days or weeks. I'm afraid we can go no nearer than that.' He stopped at  Antonia's door, glanced briefly through its glass spy-hole and motioned  Haidee back a pace. 'Your sister has had a rough time of it. She'll be  glad of you to share the burden.'

'My-' Tight-lipped control kept the ejaculation from finishing. 'Is my  sister here now?' Sister? It wasn't possible. Paul had said no  relatives.

'Yes. She comes every day, even when your mother doesn't know she's  there.' His eyes took on a new understanding. 'I daresay you'd like a  word with her first. Jennie,' he said, quietly opening the door a few  inches.                       
       
           



       

It was a terrifying moment. Whatever about Rory Hart, surely Suzanne's  sister would need only one look to denounce her. For a second Haidee  thought frantically of flight. And then the door opened and Jennie came  out.

Her long brown hair fell over the shoulders of her navy blue sweater,  her long oval face was unreadable except that it held no joy. And she  was young, early teens, little more than a child. What this youngster  had gone through in the past weeks crashed through all Haidee's fears  for her own position. 'Jennie,' she said softly. 'I'm sorry it's been so  long.'

A dog's brown eyes are the epitome of faithfulness. Jennie had spaniel  eyes, but they seemed to be looking at Haidee as though their owner was  absent. They were opaque and distant.

The doctor's gaze turned from one face to the other. 'It's a long time, I  take it, since you two have seen each other?' 'We never have,' Jennie  said without emotion.

'Then would you like me to evict Sister again and give you her office for a few minutes?'

'No, thank you.' Again it was Jennie's voice, a beautiful one, Haidee  acknowledged with envy. 'I don't think we have anything to talk about.'  She turned the full of her veiled brown eyes on her so-called sister.  'You'd better go in. She's waited hours for you as it is.'

She might as well have said 'She's waited fifteen years for you.' It was  in every line of her, narrow dark back, tiny wide-belted waist, flowing  navy trousers, as she moved away down the corridor.

'Oh, please don't ...' Haidee made to follow and was restrained by the  doctor's hand. Jennie had closed the door. He pushed it open and  motioned Haidee forward. A voice said faintly: 'Sue?'

Haidee was still standing uncertainly out of vision. But this situation  had happened to her before. That evening four weeks ago several friends  had been standing by to help, but her mother had looked for none but her  daughter. Her last words: 'Haidee, is it tea-time?' had shown a gallant  desire to be normal right to the end. The lump that rose suddenly in  Haidee's throat was not assumed. As the voice said: 'Sue?' again, she  hurried across to the bed.

'I'm here, Mother. I'm here.'

However tangled the web, weaving it was child's play. Antonia Whittaker  asked no questions and uttered no reproaches. She was in fact floating  in a happy blur. 'These eyes of mine, such a nuisance. I can't see you  properly.' Threadlike as it was, the voice had the same beautiful  cadences as Jennie's. It raised a scarifying question. How had Suzanne  spoken?

'Just as well!' Doggedly Haidee made a joke of it. 'I'm still-' She  paused. A risk, but in a way it made her feel less of an impostor. 'The  plain one of the family.'

It had to be true, that is, if Suzanne had really looked like her, for  Jennie's Victorian face could be beautiful and Antonia's had very nearly  the prettiness of a girl. The hair that framed it, visible today  without the bandage, was blonde and baby-soft, the wide mouth was a  perfect bow and the large blue eyes had a fluttery look. At this moment  they seemed imploring.

'No, never. You're you.' A look of fret came in. 'So silly. My stupid arm-I can't even touch you.'

If she only knew, Haidee thought warmly, how deeply she had touched her  already. On impulse she leaned forward and laid her cheek against the  sufferer's. Surely the real Suzanne would have done no less. And surely  the past could not be fully ignored.

'I'm sorry,' she found herself whispering. 'I should have come years ago. I've caused you so much worry.'

Had it been a mistake? The warm tears dropping on her cheek were  free-flowing and might be weakening. 'Don't, please,' she urged  guiltily. 'I'm back now.' Another glance at the tear-filled eyes decided  her. 'Back to stay as long as you want me.' If emotion had wrung the  promise from her common sense told her that it was one from which she  would soon be released. And already joy was surmounting the face's  fragility.                       
       
           



       

'Oh, my darling,' Antonia said tremulously. She drew a breath. 'I was  afraid. It's so long. And your voice has changed-not much, just a  little. But I wasn't sure ...' Again she stopped.

It was a cold moment echoing icily Haidee's previous thoughts of Jacob  and Esau. Their blind father had said in puzzled helplessness: 'The  voice is the voice of Jacob,' and here other eyes were dimming and  bringing the same distress. Haidee knew her motives were as high as  Paul's had been. It made no matter. The moment was not only cold, it was  grimy. She loathed herself.

Antonia, meantime, was continuing with more strength. 'Do you remember  him, Sue? He was so proud of you. Had such plans and then never...'  There was another painful pause. 'I think-I have missed him every day.  Is that wrong?'

'No, no. How could it be?' Haidee soothed. It was not at all difficult  to get the drift. 'He' must refer to Suzanne's father who had died  presumably when she was still a subteen.

'Such happy days,' Antonia was saying. 'The three of us and Glenglass.  It changed, you know. You were right, I...' Restlessly she turned her  head. 'I want Edward. It will be Edward, won't it, when I get there...'

Again intuition helped. Paul had referred to 'Jack Whittaker.' 'Edward'  must have been Edward Desmond, Suzanne's father. 'I'm sure it will,'  Haidee said with conviction.

More sentences were coming, broken but lucid. 'Shouldn't have married  Jack. It was-different. And for Glenglass. You-would have helped. Jennie  doesn't understand. She'll get into trouble. She'll let that man ...  poor Jennie, it's not her fault, I shouldn't have had her...'

'Darling, please!' Haidee was shocked.

'Not like us,' Antonia repeated. 'Poor Jennie. You will stay with her? Look after her for me.'

'Yes, of course,' Haidee soothed mechanically.

'Promise.' The voice was urgent, taxing the speaker's powers to the  utmost. 'Promise you'll go to Glenglass. When I die she mustn't be  alone, not at first, not till she's over the shock. Fifteen. She's  fifteen.' It seemed as though she'd spent the last ounce of her  strength. Haidee begged her to rest. It was the way to get better.